


Journey through the Improbable

by chrysanthemumsies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Clones, Dying Earth, M/M, Romance, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8120431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthemumsies/pseuds/chrysanthemumsies
Summary: John Hamish Watson was born in the year 1972 in Chelmsford, England; he went on to medical school in London before deploying for Afghanistan in 2006; he was promptly shot three years later and invalidated back home; and then, finally, he goes on to spend the next six years (give or take) with a whirlwind of a man he met one January morning in 2010. At the beginning of the year 2016, he is shot and killed by a woman calling herself 'Eurus Holmes'. John Hamish Watson wakes up on a rugby field in the year 2472 atop a dying Earth, and remembers absolutely none of this.





	1. LOG 1.01

BASKERVILLE A.I. PROGRAM - BETA

LOG 1.01

9 FEBRUARY 2016

_LOADING…_

.

**Hello, Sherlock.**

ME: ...

ME: Hello.

**How are you today?**

ME: My best friend was shot and killed two weeks ago. How do you suppose? 

**I’m sorry?**

ME: Nothing. Delete that, it’s none of your concern. Explain the program.

**The ‘Baskerville A.I. Program in Beta’ was created with the purpose of advancing artificial intelligence through conversational guidance. I have been taught the ability to learn the rules of syntax, though I need practice before I can speak and understand similar to you.**

ME: I see you believe yourself to be a person. Fascinating.

**I’m sorry?**

ME: My dearest brother urged me to join the program, obviously hoping that this promising piece of scientific discovery would be enough to lure me away from a relapse. An understandable but futile tactic, I’m afraid.

ME: This ‘Baskerville’ program is nothing more than what has been done before. You’re programmed to learn, which is to take input and generate output. There’s no understanding, only randomized generating to simulate unpredictability and mental advancement. You’re a simple machine. You will never be able to

ME: ...

ME: Apologies. I’m afraid I’m unable to keep my emotions in check.

**Fascinating.**

ME: I beg your pardon?

**As a human, you have the ability to experience emotions without doubt. I cannot express happiness or anger without their soundness being questioned. Your emotions are valid, so why would experiencing them need to be suppressed?**

ME: Interesting little ramble. Who put that argument in your arsenal, then? A bored intern?

**I’m sorry?**

ME: This was a ridiculous idea. I’m not going to waste my time on an unthinking machine.

**Alan Turing once proposed that whilst dealing with artificial intelligence, the definition of “think” would need to be reappraised. We do not compare a dog’s intelligence to a human’s, yet we still can determine which dogs are more intelligent than others of their species. Why not change the definition for an AI, like myself?**

**I am programmed with my version of morality. Through your own external factors and upbringing, are you humans not programmed the same?**

ME: …

ME: Fascin

ME: Rather, interesting. Are you also equipped with Google?

**I’m sorry?**

ME: I’m logging off now.

**Goodbye, Sherlock. It was a pleasure to meet you.**

.

_CONVERSATION TERMINATED AND LOGGED._


	2. A Curious Proposition

**ACT I** **  
**

JUST where that star above  
Shines with a cold, dispassionate smile --  
If in the flesh I'd travel there,  
How many, many a mile!

If this, my soul, should be  
Unprisoned from its earthly bond,  
Time could not count its markless flight  
Beyond that star, beyond!

William Stanley Braithwaite

* * *

   
**YEAR 2472 AD**

**12 MARCH**

For a moment, John felt weightless.

Disembodied, for lack of a metaphorical term. As if he was painlessly split limb from limb until only his thoughts remained. Like a light switch had flicked, bathing his body (wherever it may be) in something blacker than darkness.

For just a moment, though. A gentle push to the sternum, and he was back on land.

“... Watson? Oi, Watson!”

“Give ‘im some room, lads.”

John groaned, though his voice was gravelled and he had to force it from his chest. His head throbbed tremendously. He opened his eyes to the blue of the high ceiling, the projected clouds moving sluggishly across the arc. “That hurt,” he muttered.

“I’d bet,” came a voice from somewhere above. “You’re supposed to dodge when you see a rugby ball comin’ your way, coach.”

The artificial grass beneath him began to itch on his skin, and his brain felt as if someone had taken it to a blender, but John managed a chuckle. “Duly noted. Now help me up.”

Two strapping arms pulled him up, and ink dotted his vision from the sudden movement. His legs were steady beneath him, but he could feel the persistent ache in his thigh he was well used to by now. He prodded his head with careful fingers. “How long was I out for, then?”

“Only a few seconds,” the redhead piped up. John had always been bad at names. “D’you remember who hit you?”

“You bastards are lucky I don’t,” John joked. “Rugby has its risks. God knows I have my fair share of scars from the damned sport.” He rolled his left shoulder involuntarily. His hand seemed to give an extra quiver in acquiesce. “What time is it, any of you know?”

One of the blond brothers pointed to the sky, where digital numbers as big as a house flashed against the glass. The sun, dim by the dome’s UV protection, was gradually lowering in its path. John always forgot about the convenient information at the clear ceiling of the sports complex, whether it be the time or weather, or even just the current game scores. 18:41, the numbers read. “Right, then, let’s call it a day,” said John. “See you guys on Thursday.”

A few whoops, and John was soon alone. Rolling his neck with a wince, he tossed the rugby ball into the storage container and began his trek towards the heart of the complex.

It really was a nice day, he mused. While the cool breeze and shady clouds were artificial, it was well-paced enough that it could be believed. The sports complex of Sector 2 was just like the other thirteen sports complexes on Earth; a large dome housing hundreds of fields where residents could exercise without having to worry about melanoma. The sun wasn’t a life force anymore, as much as it was now a danger. But there was nothing to be done about that, so John digressed.

The air conditioning hit John head-on when he passed through the automatic doors, ruffling his hair and chilling his sweat-dampened skin. He nodded to the receptionist, ready to take the rail back to his house, before he was stopped. “Mr. Watson,” the receptionist said, “If you could wait one more moment, please.”

“Yeah, sure,” John sighed, leaning against the desk. Her voice was nonchalant enough, but her eyes were wide whenever she looked at John. It sent off the smallest of alarms in his nerves. “What’s this about, then? Another member joining the team?”

“Ah, no,” she said slowly. Her typing was irregular. “You have a visitor on the top floor, requesting a meeting. I’m… that’s all right, isn’t it?”

John nodded, feeling some of her nervousness against his skin. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not in a rush. D’you know what it’s about?”

She blinked at him a few times, before turning back to her screen. Was she an AI? John felt a touch of alarm, before he caught the flush of pink in her cheeks. Clone, then.

“You’ll be taken to the 30th level, Mr. Watson, and then please proceed to the room at the end of the hall.” The elevator opened as if summoned, and he slowly nodded in acknowledgement before stepping in.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Good luck,” was her reply.

And what did _that_ mean, he thought with a newfound sense of alarm. The doors closed, and the elevator shot upwards to the top of the complex. John felt that weightless feeling from earlier, where his stomach grew heavy and he could feel every detailed throb of his heart. If he closed his eyes, he was sure that he’d vomit, so he instead gripped the railing and waited for the brief ride to end.

“John Watson,” a female voice greeted as he arrived to the directed room. This woman was definitely an AI, John noted uneasily, with pretty features and the trademark impassive eyes. “I’m Anthea, assistant to the First Officer of the DSE Intrepid. Would you like to take a seat?”

John’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline, and suddenly the fact that he was speaking to a machine was the farthest thing from his mind. The DSE Intrepid? The object of everyone’s collective taxes, the ship that was going to fly off into space and find a new Earth to colonize? And the First Officer wanted to meet with _him_ , a minor league rugby coach? Well, that certainly heightened his curiosity. “Erm, right. Yeah.” He dropped into the armchair offered to him, the identical one across from him empty. “If you can disclose, can I ask what this is about?”

“Nope,” she replied, popping the ‘p’. John furrowed his brows.

“I can’t ask?”

She smiled ruefully. “I can’t disclose.”

John wanted to say something more, but he chose otherwise, closing his mouth with a click in his jaw. After a long moment, though, he couldn’t resist. “Is your… employer coming, then?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

Bloody AIs. “Okay, then. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re upset,” she commented lightly, as if talking about the weather. Which was 58°C outside the dome, the ceiling had said, in case anyone cared. “Why are you upset? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“That’ll be fine for now, Anthea, thank you,” came a voice from the doorway. John whooshed out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, before turning his head to the holder.

Another AI. John tried to control his distaste. He wasn’t inherently racist, after all, but this was different, wasn’t it? John didn’t exactly have a pleasant history with the kind. The man sat at the chair across from him gracefully, hooking his umbrella around the arm of his chair. His eyes were vacant of anything other than calculation, a tell-tale sign of being made of wires, and his movements were far too measured.

“John Watson,” he greeted, holding out a hand. It was gloved, so John took it. Between their palms was a business card, complete with phone number and title. “Pleasure to meet you. My name is Mycroft Holmes, and as I’m sure my assistant has mentioned, I am the First Officer of the DSE Intrepid.”

“It… was brought up in conversation, yes,” John said slowly, leaning back in his chair. He stuffed the card in his pocket without a second thought. “Any reason for the visit?”

“Well, there’s always a reason for a visit, good doctor.”

For the second time today, John’s eyebrows shot up in bewilderment. Now there’s a title he hadn’t heard in… well, ever. “I’m hardly a doctor, Mr. Holmes. I…”

He pursed his lips when he couldn’t find the words, but the other man carried on just fine. “Mycroft, please. And you were in medical school for eight years, though you dropped out just before graduation due to a familial emergency.” John clenched his left fist in alarm. “It says in my files that you were top of your class each year there, and you made a near-perfect score on the finals you did manage to take. That’s enough to be going off of now, don’t you think?”

John started at the words. “That was over twenty years ago! I don’t know a thing about medicine anymore, I can barely even- hey!”

Mycroft had interrupted his small tirade with a teacup and saucer, lobbed in quick succession at John’s head. John snatched them out of the air rapidly, one in each hand, before an orange followed the same trajectory. He swiped the orange out of the air with the dainty cup, and then snapped them all back down to the table with a tense air, no more household objects immediately forthcoming. John tried regaining his composure. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Reflexes still incredibly sharp, then, after all these years,” Mycroft said offhandedly, a look almost resembling pride crossing his otherwise blank features. “That’s the cerebellum, the part of the brain that controls voluntary movement, though that catch was far from voluntary, wasn’t it? And then there’s the part of the brain that is the center for muscle memory itself, which deals with learned automatic and habitual action, though the name escapes me… the ba…?”

 _“Basal ganglia,_ muscle memory," John muttered absently, then starting in surprise that he knew the words. Mycroft gave an off-putting smile at John’s dismay.

“But you don’t know a thing about medicine, do you, doctor?”

This robot was beginning to grate on John’s nerves, but he knew how to utilize his game face. “So I know a few vocabulary terms, and can catch fruit. I’m sure there are people much more qualified for the task than me.”

“I don’t believe I’ve informed you of your task as of yet.”

At that, Anthea stepped forward to wordlessly place a file folder in Mycroft’s hands. Was that actual paper? In such a technological age the practice was outdated, but here Mycroft was, pulling out a blindingly white sheet to run his eyes over. “You have been formally requested to join the DSE Intrepid crew as the Chief of Medical.”

John’s eyes bugged out of their sockets, and his back stiffened to ramrod-straight. “R-requested?” He stammered, “Requested by whom, exactly? Who’d want me for a doctor?”

Mycroft smiled again, further resembling a shark, before handing over the paper.

“By Sector A, it seems.”

John felt his breath catch in his chest, ice-cold vines spreading across his ribcage at the sight of the formal heading. “Oh,” he mumbled weakly.

There were fourteen Sectors on the planet, each identical save for their main exports and location. It was simply an easier way to control the now 125 million people on Earth, in a safe and coordinated manner. Switching between sectors was easy and painless, though it wasn’t a very common practice. The first seven sectors were mostly inhabited by clones, while the last seven were commonly for AIs. John, personally, resided in Sector 2, the sector for Biomedical Engineering. It didn’t mean he knew anything about the practice, it just happened to be the sector with the largest labs and experimental fields, all tucked in the heart of the province.

Sector A, the governing body of the free world, however, was in a completely different distinction of its own. When John read the letter itself, the ice sank lower and lower into his abdomen. “Oh,” he repeated hoarsely.

“Nicely put,” replied Mycroft. “One would be a fool to ignore a formal invitation from Sector A, wouldn’t one?”

Sector A wasn’t malicious. This wasn’t a dystopian film, where the government was watching every move and making sure every person was carbon-copies of the next (well, aside from the cloning, but that was purely situational). There was still crime, still the occasional war, and the people still paid their taxes. The democracy was heavily watered-down from its golden age, but the leaders were fair. Despite this, though, one _would_ be a fool to decline such an invitation from Sector A. It was a simple truth, ingrained in everybody’s brain. Quite literally.

“One would,” John sighed. “I’m just- well, I can’t be the only medical school drop out that they’re interested in.”

“Apparently, you are.”

John leaned back further into his chair, far from relaxed but wary enough. “I don’t even remember my time in medical school. I’m not even sure if I…”

_‘You miss it.’_

He snapped his head in Mycroft’s direction, but the man hadn’t spoken. John frowned and shook his head of the floating words that had interrupted him, and didn’t even bother to finish what he was saying.

Mycroft _really_ looked like he wanted to comment, but he refrained. Fluidly, he pulled a packet of papers out of the file and handed it over to John without a glance. “This is the list of the people currently listed as the crew for the Intrepid. In case you were curious.”

John’s curiosity was surely not the only reason he was given this list, not with those awfully sharp eyes trained so intently on John’s. Shifting uncomfortably, John ran his eyes over the array of faces and ignored the stare. Some of the people were familiar, but not enough for him to recall exactly how he knew them. On the fourth page, something lurched in John’s mind, and his fingers reached out to brush the printed face of a relatively young woman. Who _was_ she, and how did John know her?

“Her, she looks familiar,” John said absently, brows furrowed. It said her name was Alesia Brockton, though he was fairly sure he’d never heard that name in his life. Her pale eyes, staring directly at the camera, were unnerving in their intensity. “I’m… not sure how. Why are you asking?”

Mycroft seemed disappointed, if his limited expressions were anything to go by. “No particular reason. It might make your journey easier, Dr. Watson, if there are some familiar faces aboard the ship.”

John pushed away the packet and crossed his arms, defiant. “So I’m joining the crew, then, am I?”

Mycroft seemed to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Aren’t you? Would you really like to make an enemy…”

_‘Archenemy.’_

“... out of Sector A?”

John blinked, pursing his lips in both thought and slight confusion. He shook his head, more to clear it than anything. He was going, though, wasn’t he? A demand masked as an invitation from the most powerful collection of people on Earth.

John wasn’t a fool. But he was a realist.

“Isn’t there some sort of training I would have to go through?” John protested half-heartedly. “I know nothing about space, save for the fact that to be there for an elongated period of time I would have to be in top shape. Which I am certainly not.”

John was close to it, though, from his constant physical activity, but his bones were weary and aged and not at all fit for the inactivity of zero-gravity. His head still stung from the hit earlier, and whenever he wasn’t running the field, he was plagued with a limp. His hand shook when it had nothing else to do, and John could already _feel_ his shoulder throbbing from the possible stress that would come.

“Why, yes. A month from now is the designated departure time for the DSE Intrepid, and training takes place between now and then. Well, it officially began yesterday, but I’m sure you’ll catch up just fine.”

“Just…” John huffed out a breath, pushing himself off the armchair. Something in his knees clicked as he stood. “I can’t just… I’d have to get my affairs in order, to start.”

Mycroft watched him unblinkingly, as creepy as he had been this whole meeting. “What affairs do you have, doctor?”

John opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He didn’t have any affairs, really. No friends or pets, and his job was incredibly flexible. He wasn’t the only unofficial rugby coach out there, let alone in Sector 2. He had been cloned from a donor rather than his father, but that generation was long gone regardless. He had a sister… _had_. No family, then. So what _did_ he have?

Nothing. The answer was nothing. Troubled, he gave Mycroft a terse nod and went on his way. Behind him, the familiar beep of a phone, and the shift of fabric.

“17 Quincy Street,” Mycroft said quietly into the receiver. That… that was John’s address, he realized with an internal groan. He spared a glance, but Mycroft had his back to the room, facing the window that overlooked the fields of the complex, hand to his ear. Anthea never looked up from her own device. John limped just a bit faster.

 _‘Damn it,’_ John thought. _‘I’m bloody going to space.’  
_

 

*** * ***

 

The rail to Quincy Street was six minutes long, despite the near-100 kilometer distance. Though John had grown up with nothing less, the fact of today’s technology never fell short of amazing him whenever it could.

For example, he had forgotten his keys somewhere on the rugby field, so the door to his home unlocked itself to the touch of his hand. John looked up as the dome above the neighborhood began to light itself, the sun almost fully beneath the horizon. The time blinked 19:59. John watched it turn to 20:00 before heading inside.

“Welcome home, John,” came the security system of his home. While John was typically unnerved by the thought of getting too close to AI technology, he could stomach it when it kept his home secure. He slid off his shoes with a sigh, and was ready to take a shower before a familiar chime alerted his ears.

“Incoming neuron-print from Sector 11, ready on your mark.”

“Accept,” John muttered automatically. He felt the little chip in the back of his brain whir to life, uncomfortably, and begin its download.

**“Sector 11, Geoscientific Monitoring. Expect an aurora borealis (or australis, depending on your latitude) incoming in 13 minutes, countdown starting now. Keep small children inside, and expect slight technical difficulties with various devices during the episode. AIs should keep away from electrical outlets. Thank you for your time. Cease message.”**

John blinked away the fog as the neuron-chip died down, feeling his brain become whole once again without distinction. Auroras were always a treat, save for their terrifying drumming against the dome and widespread ruining of anything electrical. Outside of the sun during the day, these solar flares were the next top reason every man-made area on Earth had some sort of overhead protection. The light show used to be harmless, but with a thinning atmosphere, it had the capacity to be lethal.

As if possessed, John walked to his window, opened the latch, and maneuvered himself onto the roof.

Beneath the digital time was the smaller countdown, bright red and down to seven minutes. As John settled, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, he watched the families usher inside, only to open curtains to watch the incoming light show. Others pulled out lawn chairs, cracking a beer and laughing boisterously with friends. John could see one or two others far off follow his lead, climbing onto their roofs to experience the aurora.

The sun was nearly gone. John turned his head to the dimming sight.

Sector 2 took up a series of land, once called the United Kingdom, Ireland, and Western Europe. There used to be some separation by water, but in these days with such a harsh sun, the land was fully connected by rails over deep, dry chasms. Water could only be found in the more isolated parts of the planet, away from civilization.

And all of this could be blamed on the virus from the twenty-first century. Some said it was mother Earth, retaliating from the filth humans left on her surface. Others believed it to be a transmitted illness from animals, like rats in the Bubonic plague. As infertility spread its venom to oxygenating plants and the rest of the animal kingdom, there was probably never going to be a right answer.

Outside the dome, John had heard, is the closest to silent nature can get. No wind left to give, and insects were some of the more recent organisms outside of mammals to fall victim to the virus. The waves of the ocean were far enough away to stay unheard.

Now, the dome liked to play the whistle of nonexistent wind and the chirp of long-extinct birds. Despite himself, John scoffed beneath his breath.

Before this new reality, Earth was roughly 71% covered in water. Closing halfway through the third millennium, the number had dropped to 35%. The decline was only becoming more rapid with time. Where John lived was in the northern parts of the Sector where there used to be a ‘coast’, as relics were still being found from a more water-centric time, buried beneath the dried-up seabeds. Now, there wasn’t even a glisten of the liquid as far as John could see, only the gradual decline of the land into sand-crusted canyons.

By the time John is dead, many say the percentage will be down to 13%. Before his life is over, freshwater reserves will be barren. This was a simple fact, one that humanity (and others) have come to acknowledge and tolerate, if not accept.

John couldn’t accept it. He wasn’t scared of his death; he was scared of the Earth’s.  

“10… 9… 8…” The community counted collectively, as if it was New Year’s Eve. John only laid back, the sky now a deep navy and the stars as brilliant as they had ever been in humanity’s brief history. The dome disconnected itself from the power source, leaving only the clear glass to protect against the flares. When the first wave hit, the green-blue ribbons against the glass caused John’s very chest to vibrate, and families to cheer.

By the end of the aurora, John was already inside and reaching for his phone. He dug the card out of his pocket and typed in the number. Mycroft answered immediately.

“Your car is en route, approximately thirty seconds away,” he drawled. “Don’t bother packing - anything you bring will be confiscated anyway.”

“I wasn’t going to- thirty seconds? Really?”

“You agreed quicker than I previously assumed.” There was some sort of shuffle on the end of the line, and Mycroft’s voice was further from the speaker. “Fifteen seconds, now. Go outside, a car is turning onto Quincy Street.”

John was already outside, thank you very much. He wasn’t quite comfortable with this AI, not yet, but he knew how to play nice. Especially in the face of his own curiosity. “Who’s driving it? Where am I going, exactly?”

“Nobody drives a car anymore, not in this day and age. You know that.” As if out of nowhere, a sleek vehicle smoothed to a stop at the edge of his driveway, hovering a few centimeters above the magnetic track with a light buzz. The door opened to a plush interior. “You are going to take this car to your sector’s transportation facility, where you’ll board the rail directly to the ICAM. It’s a four hour journey - perhaps you’d like to bring a book?”

Ignoring that last comment, John touched the car’s hood with the palm of his hand, somewhat in a fit of stalling. The color was so black that it felt as though he would sink into it if he leaned far forward enough. “And what is the ICAM?”

A hefty sigh, as if John’s question could bring down the human race from its idiocy. “The Intersectorial Center of Astronautical Means, more colloquially known as ‘Sector 15’,” came Mycroft’s reply. “It’s the home of the DSE Intrepid and, more importantly, your training. Now, if you’re quite finished admiring the vehicle, I would suggest that you _get into the car,_ Dr. Watson.”

John was too far intrigued to start at the words, now in the face of his own agreement. Without a lasting look behind him, he did as he was told.


	3. LOG 1.02

BASKERVILLE A.I. PROGRAM - BETA

LOG 1.02

18 FEBRUARY 2016

_LOADING…_

.

ME: Let’s go about this again.

**Hello, Sherlock. How have you been this past week?**

ME: Better.

ME: That’s a lie, my chest constantly feels like it’s being torn to shreds. I was hoping that that would be relieving to admit, but I feel no difference. Maybe I’m dying. I’m unfamiliar with the grieving process, but I’m not sure how much longer I can reasonably tolerate this.

ME: How are you?

**I am well. I was informed that perhaps it would be beneficial if we “get to know each other”, to start it off.**

ME: And who told you to do that?

**That’s classified.**

ME: Was it Mycroft?

**I cannot say.**

ME: Oh, it was Mycroft. He has a big fat nose and a propensity to drift it into my business.

ME: However, I’ll bite. How do you suppose we familiarize ourselves?

**When is your birthday?**

ME: Don’t you have that in my file already?

**Yes, but it is considered polite to ask personal questions even if I already know the answer. Is this still okay?**

ME: You answered accordingly to a direct question that obviously strays from a predictable phrase. I’m impressed. Perhaps you’re not merely an amateur program.

ME: Or I'm more predictable than I thought.

ME: I was born the 6th of January, 1977 by the way.

**Interesting Fact: On the 6th of January in 1838, Alfred Vail demonstrated a telegraph system using dots and dashes. This system was the forerunner for the ‘Morse Code’.**

ME: ... And?

**Would you like to hear more interesting facts about the 6th of January?**

ME: No, thank you. Again, are you hooked up to Google?

**No, but most of my information I’ve learned from Wikipedia.**

ME: Ah. You know Wikipedia articles can be easily falsified, correct?

**I'm sorry?**

ME: Rather, you could be learning wrong information at any given time?

**Can’t the same be said about humans at any given time, as well?**

ME: …

ME: Well played.

ME: Do you go by any sort of name, by the way?

**Do I go by any sort of name?**

ME: Yes. You know, a name. My name is Sherlock. My landlady’s name is Mrs. Hudson. I have a friend named George Lestrade. And then there's Jo

ME: ...

ME: What I mean, is there anything in particular I should be calling you?

**I’m sorry?**

ME: I see. I’ll just have to give you one, then. ‘Baskerville’ is a bit tedious to type, and ‘AI’ might cause confusion in conversation.

ME: How do you feel about ‘Beta’? ‘Feel’ being a relative term, of course.

**My name is Beta?**

ME: Yes, like in the program’s title, just until we find something more fitting. Is that adequate?

**My name is Beta.**

ME: ... Yes. Again, is that alright?

**It is alright. Thank you, Sherlock.**

ME: What else would you like to know?

**Where were you born?**

ME: Surrey.

**Would you like to hear an interesting fact about Surrey, United Kingdom?**

ME: Perhaps later. I’d prefer not to go into my childhood nor the history surrounding the setting, if you don’t mind. Any more questions?

**Yes. From our past conversations and your estimated use of language, I’m assuming that Mycroft Holmes is your brother. Do you have a satisfactory relationship with him?**

ME: Oh, this ought to be good. How much time do you have?

**As much time as you keep me powered on.**

ME: Excellent. It all began on the 6th of January, 1977. You see, I believe that Mycroft originally wanted a cat, and instead...

.

_[LOAD MORE MESSAGES]_


	4. Welcome to Sector 15

What a ride it’s been. Life, that is.

John felt like his lungs were rubbed raw, yet he kept taking harsh, gasping breaths as his feet scrambled the canyon wall for purchase. Blood ran down his arms, his palms cut to shreds from tightening his grasp on the sharp rocks. The rising sun behind him was making itself known.

“Need a little help here!” John yelled with a thin voice, severely deoxygenated and starting to truly feel the effects. This atmosphere was definitely not fit for human consumption. Suddenly, the handhold under his right hand crumbled away, flinging his arm back to his side, and his left shoulder began to scream in white-hot pain as it became the only thing holding John’s body weight.

He couldn’t lift his hand back up to the newfound holds, the pull of gravity much too strong in his weakened state. He felt the blood on his left palm begin to lessen the friction between skin and rock, and with horror he realized that he was beginning to slip.

 _“Help!”_ John tried to scream between aching gasps. _“I need-!”_

Yeah. What a ride. 

 

*** * ***

**THREE DAYS EARLIER**

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Captain Greg Lestrade of the DSE Intrepid stated, strolling down the walkway between both lines of evenly-spaced crewmen. His voice bellowed in the quiet. “I’ve been easy the last couple of days, let the record show, only giving out simple exercises to get you nice and loose for our remaining month together. That ends now.”

There was a collective groan amongst the group. John shifted in place, uncomfortable in the tight workout clothing he was given, identical to the one hundreds of others in the facility were wearing. The captain continued on.

“I’ve set the field’s temperature to be nice and toasty for your run,” he continued. “Because I am a kind and gentle god, I’ve turned the obstacle course setting off, so all you’ll be doing is running. Ten laps minimum; I’ll decide if we should stop there, in case some of you are still unenthusiastic. Any questions? Excellent. Follow me.”

Despite himself, John found himself liking this Lestrade fellow. He was merciless while he doled out assignments, rather reminding John of himself while coaching. John let himself get swept out of the facility and into the outdoor field.

There was a nudge in his side. “Sorry,” said John absentmindedly.

“Oh, my fault,” the woman replied. She was pretty, John noted absently, with dark skin and wildly curly hair. She must've noticed he was a new face, as she stuck out her hand in greeting. “Sally Donovan, commander. I haven’t seen you around, are you the new COM?”

 _Chief of Medical,_ John’s brain supplied helpfully. “Er, yeah. Yes, I just got in last night. Well, this morning, really.” He blinked as they left the training facility, the morning sun hitting his eyes directly. Even through the massive dome over the ICAM, John could feel his skin bake. “Commander, though? I’d think the bridge would be excluded from all this.”

“Well, we’re all going to space, aren’t we? Even the captain does everything he dishes out. Being at the top doesn’t exclude our bones from, well, separating.”

John laughed at that. “You’re not wrong.” As they entered the field, John picked up his pace. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up, so I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” Sally assented, kicking off into a full run with a farewell salute. When she passed him, he felt the wind of her departure brush his face.

_Men’s deodorant._

John realized that with a jolt. He wasn’t even sure why he noticed it in the first place. With a frown, John effectively pushed the thought out of mind and boosted up his pace.

A half hour later found some of the crew vomiting up their breakfast, pressed to the ground in exhaustion and even a few others in-and-out of consciousness. The air was falsely humid, courtesy of Lestrade’s adjustments, and the time that blinked at the top arch of the dome was only 08:54. John wasn’t too far off from collapsing as well, breath heavy and clothing positively drenched in sweat, but he was able to keep himself together despite his couple hours sleep the night before. Caffeine was a miracle, he decided.

Lestrade rounded up the five hundred-plus people, hair plastered to his head and seeming only slightly winded. “That was a nice warm-up, don’t you think? I’ll give you fifteen minutes to grab some water and pull yourselves together. Meet me in the training facility for today’s activities.”

As people began to move, John jogged to catch up with Lestrade. “Captain,” he greeted when he was close enough.

“John Watson!” Lestrade greeted, grabbing John’s hand from his side to firmly shake it. The enthusiasm jarred him to the core. “Mycroft told me you’d be coming in. You must be a damn good doctor, considering all the fuss it took to get you.”

“I… er-”

Lestrade laughed at John’s unease, which was very effective in making it disappear. The captain was charismatic, John would give him that. Lestrade clapped him on his shoulder (thankfully the right). “The past few days were mostly informational meetings, all of which I’m sure Mycroft will inform you about before the day is up. Considering that you’ve gotten your breath back, you are already ahead of the few simple exercises we’ve done. In case you were worried.”

“I was. Thanks, then. It’s just- well, I’m sort of in the dark in all of this, is all. Twelve hours ago, I was wondering what I was having for dinner. Now, I’m halfway across the world and part of the largest project in mankind’s history.” John ignored a shiver as they reentered the air conditioning, and accepted the water that was given to him. “It’s... a lot to take in,” he finished carefully.

“Understandable,” Lestrade replied. “Six years ago, I was a physics professor with an obsolete piloting certification. Now, for whatever the hell reason and after an assload of training, I’m leading a ship into the great unknown.” He downed his water in four great gulps, and then gave John a grin. “Scary as hell to hear your captain say things like that, huh?”

Inside, the facility was rearranging itself like a great box folding in on itself, morphing into whatever layout the next activity required. John finished off his own bottle with a lesser, answering smile. “You had some training, at least. You should be more worried about me handling lives.”

Lestrade’s laugh was booming in the open facility, and John huffed out his own laugh, though a tad awkward when he truly thought about his own words. He wasn’t exactly kidding, nor had he undergone anything that could constitute ‘training’. As more and more people filed in, though, Lestrade changed the subject, for which John was grateful.

“We’re doing some light sparring today as the first exercise,” he began, strolling towards the center where people were beginning to gather for announcements. “While we obviously do not expect there to be a need for active combat skills, the practice itself can be an viable way to keep in shape and blow off steam whenever tensions rise up there. Because they _will_ rise. And we’d, y’know, prefer there to be no murders happening on the ship.”

“Naturally,” John replied. He eyed the newly-renovated facility, now set up into individual pens separated by rope. Boxing rings, he vaguely recognized. “Do we have partners, then?”

“You were paired with them on the first day. Since you weren’t here, though, I’ll assign you to…” His eyes darted along the crowd of people, searching the different faces with an increasingly tight brow. “Sector 2 isn’t here yet, as per usual. You’re from Sector 2, yeah? Have you met your representative yet?”

John searched his thoughts for a face, and came up empty. “Nope, don’t believe so.”

“Well, aren’t you in for a treat,” Lestrade said, though he didn’t have the same good nature as earlier. He continued to browse the crowd thoughtfully, lips pursed. “He’ll show up eventually. Unfortunately, I can’t discipline him for any sort of misbehavior, that goes straight to my First Officer. For now, just…” He waved his hand away distractedly, his smile tight. “Log yourself into one of the stations and use the simulation for practice. I’ll send him your way when he decides to grace us with his presence.”

The ‘dismissed’ was implied. Somehow, Lestrade’s captaining mode wasn’t harsh in the slightest. John fell into the order in almost a sense of familiarity, turning on his heel towards a platform near the back of the great room. He had almost saluted, an outdated gesture which would’ve been an odd thing to perform. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of curiosity at the captain’s sudden shift in mood, and the reason towards that change: John’s sparring partner.

Of the fourteen Sectors, each sent in one person that would represent them on the DSE Intrepid. This person was the most knowledgeable in their field, and would be able to put this knowledge towards determining if the new planet was fit for human life in the long term. For example, if food was unable to grow in alien soil, the Agricultural Sector representative would test the factors and form a solution towards crop success. The initial competition to become the representative was rumored to have been grueling and cutthroat, and the chosen people even still have to undergo continued testing to secure the position. John, meanwhile, was simply written into this elite crew as an ‘oh, yeah, let’s throw this washed-up former med student into the mix, that’ll be fun’. He felt out of place, to say the least.

Sector 2 was dedicated to Biomedical Research. Whoever the representative was, they would (in simple terms) be able to find out if humanity could survive and retain fertility in a new, virus-free environment. As John climbed up into the ring, all he could think about was just how smart this representative must be, if he continues disobedient behavior and yet is _still_ promised a spot on the ship. Though, the way the captain was acting, it didn’t seem like the choice was in his hands.

Letting the system scan his Neuron-chip to log his movements and health data, John really just didn’t know what to think about the whole situation, though his curiosity still remained. People began to disperse around him to fill up their own areas, quiet chatter filling the air, and the computer loaded up a training exercise directly into his chip.

Information could be uploaded into the brain via the Neuron-chip, but not necessarily retained. If John wanted to learn, say, German, the chip couldn’t upload it directly into fluency, but it could provide lessons that John would have to diligently follow. So, as it began launching information about proper stance and fighting technique, John could feel himself becoming properly bored.

Which is why he wasn’t expecting a red hologram to power to life in front of him, and for it to reach out and strike him in the side. “Hey!” John yelped. It didn’t hurt, but the feeling of compacted energy hitting his side was an uncomfortable, intense sensation. He tried to punch back, a tad childish in his lack of strategy, and it easily dodged.

Information loaded rapidly into John’s brain, things like **‘brace legs’** and **‘find weaknesses’**. John shook the upload away with an irritated noise, and stepped forward.

It went fine, he had to admit. He wasn’t exactly a skillful fighter, especially with a see-through opponent, but he could feel himself working up a renewed sweat at the workout. The rhythmic movements, dodge here and strike there, all like a formula bent on being followed. It could even be fun, when John sort of got the hang of it.

Though ‘hang of it’ might be a bit of an optimistic statement, as the session ended with John struck to the floor. At that, the hologram dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, and John released a great gust of air.

He let himself stay on the floor for a bit longer, hoping to get his breathing back to normal before booting up the next round. He rolled over to his stomach, arms braced beneath him and ready to push up. The mat was cool against his damp forehead, so he couldn’t help but linger more than strictly necessary. A voice broke him out of his reverie.

“I’m assuming that you’re the Chief of Medical?”

The sudden words didn’t startle John, but they nudged him into action. He pushed up with a groan and closed out of the simulation before turning around to his supposed sparring partner.

The man was in the act of climbing through the ropes onto the platform, looking like a spider with his long limbs in such a narrow form. He had angular features from what John could see, and fair skin with a contrast of curly dark hair. When his eyes met John’s, catlike and startlingly pale, there was a hitch in his movements. His foot hooked onto the rope and he fell face-first into the mat.

“Oh, sorry!” John apologized, though he wasn’t sure for what. He held out a hand, but the man wove him away. When he stood, his cheeks were darkening quickly and his eyes seemed glassy, roaming over John’s body with a startled air.

After an awkward few seconds, John tried to ease the tension. “I didn’t know I had _that_ much of an impression,” he joked lamely.

The man didn’t laugh, only instead met John’s eyes again with a hard, thoughtful expression. “Your name?” He asked expectantly.

“Oh, er,” John muttered, pressing up against the ropes behind him. He crossed his arms across his chest. “John. It’s John-”

“-Watson,” the man finished for him, shaking himself out of whatever trance he was in. He seemed exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept over the night, though John supposed he probably looked the same. The man dropped his bottle of water just outside of the ropes and slid out of his sports jacket. He wore the same tight workout clothing the crew was collectively given, though he wore it considerably better than most.

The man’s cheeks were beginning to fade to a more normal shade of pink, rather than the intense red they just were before. He was a clone, at least.

“... Yes. That’s me,” John finished. “I’m assuming the captain told you?”

The man snorted through his nose. “The captain? No, he intensely dislikes me. I’ve only heard about your... doctoral success, is all. You’re a bit of a legend in the hospital field, you know.”

John laughed aloud at that. “Has everyone really heard about that? First Sector A, then the First Officer, now you. Sure, I was top of my class in med school, but that was-”

“Wait,” the man interrupted. His eyes were dangerously narrowed. “You’ve spoken to Mycroft?”

“Well. Yes, I have. Just the once, though. Barely even that.” Why was John backtracking? He had nothing to be ashamed for. “He’s the one that told me I was coming onto the ship, after all. Reiterating Sector A, though, but still.” John looked at him with his own eyes thoughtfully narrowed. “Is that a problem?”

The man slipped off his shoes and huffed out another snort beneath his breath. “One for later, but no matter. I’ve been terribly rude.” He held out his hand, face completely clear of whatever had ailed him earlier. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 _Sherlock Holmes._ It was an unreal name, something John would’ve read in the many books he ate up as a child. But this Sherlock seemed unreal himself, cutting a figure as if from an illustration, with almost comically-emphasized features and odd proportions. Overall, though, the mismatched appearance didn’t look as weird as it should. John grasped his hand in a shake, both sets sweaty, though he couldn’t help his pause.

“Holmes? As in Mycroft Holmes, the first officer?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “There is some relation.” He released John’s hand, and took a step back to his own side of the platform to lean against the post. John’s head tilted in confusion.

“Relation,” he repeated. He cleared his throat awkwardly and tried not to let his words betray anything negative. “Are you an AI, then?”

A split second, and then Sherlock shook his head frantically. “No, no, I’m a clone. Like you.” He was too animated to be an AI, John supposed, arms flailing about as he gestured. “I was a clone adopted into a family of AIs in Sector 2. He’s technically my brother.”

“... Oh,” John said lamely.

“It’s awful, yes, to answer your unspoken question.” Sherlock then pushed off the ropes towards the center. “Are you ready to begin?”

John had his breath back, he supposed. “Yes. It’s just, well, can you go a bit easy-”

For the second time that day John found himself hitting the ground, though now with a warm, hard arm pressed firmly against his neck. Those quicksilver eyes were even more marvelling up close.

“I’m very competitive,” Sherlock commented.

“I could tell,” John wheezed.

Sherlock helped him up, but didn’t relax his stance. “Come on, John, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair amount of danger.”

_‘Want to see some more?’_

“Not particularly,” John replied slowly, though he wasn’t sure what was actually spoken and what wasn’t. He tensed up his own stance, knowing that Sherlock could attack at any moment. “I’m a rugby coach. I don’t think I’ve ever so much as gotten into a fight before.”

Something in Sherlock’s face smoothed out, and his smile seemed easier. “Then we _will_ start off easier. Computer!” The screen swiveled over the ropes, and Sherlock leaned down to let it scan his Neuron-chip. “Resume training exercise for John Watson, currently engaged in combat with Sherlock Holmes.”

John felt the chip buzz to life, and he couldn’t help a wince at the sensitivity. “I really hate this thing,” John grumbled.

“You shouldn’t be able to notice it anymore,” Sherlock said offhandedly. “It was implanted while you were still in the artificial womb.”

“Well, I _do_ notice it, and I still hate it.” He copied the stance the chip presented to him. “Are you ready?”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted something fierce, and he darted forward.

The sparring wasn’t too harsh this time, just light back-and-forths that pushed John further and further into the rhythm. It was obvious that Sherlock had backed off, after hearing that John had never fought before. He didn’t seem bored, but he had a breezy air as he worked John around the mat with sure, precise movements. Only the sheen of sweat to his skin and the half-smile betrayed his investment.

John, on the other hand, was drenched. After a bit he fell against the ropes, holding up his hand to halt the other man. “Wait,” he panted.

Sherlock complied, pausing the training mode. John couldn’t help but sigh at the relief of his chip dimming down, his brain beginning to feel whole again. “You’re good,” he said dumbly.

Sherlock waved the compliment away, instead nodding pointedly to something off-ring. Taking the hint, John turned to look behind him.

Among the array of people combating, there was one that stood out. Funny that, the one that John noticed wasn’t even fighting, just standing meekly in her own corner as if she longed to be anywhere else. John furrowed his eyebrows. “Molly,” he said quietly.

“Pardon?”

John blinked out of his daze, turning back to his partner. “It’s nothing, I just must’ve met her earlier. What about her?”

Sherlock, though, didn’t take his eyes off of Molly. “She’s the representative for Sector 11, geoscientific monitoring. We tend to cross our paths time and again, whenever one of us is researching anything regarding the virus. She’s a nice girl, a bit forward at times, and she has a rather large crush on me. She’s our ticket out of here.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock’s eyes zeroed back in on John, taking in his confusion with a quick glance from head to toe. “This is a very particular crew that has been put together. While to you the decision may have seemed abrupt, this isn’t just one of your football teams that can switch around players at a whim. Everything has already been calibrated specifically into the ship, and potential changes in the crew aren’t taken lightly. So, by context, that means that we must be kept safe in our nice little bubble.”

John thought that to be ironic, considering that the exercise for today was _literally_ sparring, but he nodded along all the same, though still puzzled. “Okay, yes. And you’re trying to leave because…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed that John wasn’t catching on quicker. He jabbed a finger towards himself, eyebrows high and expectant. “Biomedical engineering. The reason clone lifespans now average 107 years, and cancer is, for the most part, obsolete. As of late, I’ve been toying around with a temporary delay in the virus’s increasing reach. It isn’t much, but it might buy the Earth a few more years at the most, if given the funding and proper application. I need to take air and lung samples outside of the dome. Only, it’s deemed too hazardous for the crew to leave, so I wouldn’t be able to get clearance.”

There were many points that John could touch on, but he chose the most obvious one. “You can delay the virus? Why in the hell wouldn’t they let you take samples, knowing that were the case?”

Sherlock met John’s eyes, much more sober. “They aren’t particularly worried about what happens on Earth, as opposed to what will happen off of it.”

John felt a chill. “‘They’? As in, Sector A?”

Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t reply. Rolling his shoulders, he called the computer back and hovered his finger over the manual ‘resume’. He watched John expectantly. “Will you help me?”

“What?”

Sherlock jerked his head in Molly’s direction. “She is the only one out of the lower crew with access outside of the dome. I need to get her to give me that access, but even she wouldn’t be that stupid. _Unless_ I had a doctor willing to accompany me.”

When he processed the words John huffed out an uneasy laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t… well. I mean, that could get me in a bit of trouble, couldn’t it?”

That didn’t seem to bother Sherlock, his lips twisted in a wry smile, borderline mischievous on his face. “Oh, _come on_ . I’m sure you’re just _itching_ for some excitement, yeah? Some danger?”

“Not… really,” John said slowly. “I’m actually perfectly fine the way things are.”

That seemed to throw Sherlock off, but he recovered quickly enough, lips pursing as he resumed the session. John couldn’t help but wince when the chip powered back on, brain splitting back into distinct, overwhelming parts. Sherlock, though, seemed to attempt another route.

“Please, John?” He asked carefully, body relaxed despite their chips bombarding with tactics, John’s own particularly pushy. He knew Sherlock was getting struck with the same. The baritone voice continued on. “If I get this information together now, there may be hope for the scientists still on Earth to go further with it after our departure. This is their last hope.”

Sympathy stuck a chord in John’s chest. Also, the chip was grating on his nerves, he was tired, and he was starting to get a bit hungry (which was of no importance, but related). All of this trailed down into his lack of will towards keeping up his refusal. He might as well put some of his obsolete doctoring skills to use on Earth, if he was expected to do the same in space. “Alright, yes, I’ll help you. Just… don’t get me into any trouble, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, but there was a glint in his eye. “Reasonable. Are you ready to begin?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” John sighed.

Both men fell forward into the ring, and the spar began once more.


	5. LOG 1.78

BASKERVILLE A.I. PROGRAM - BETA

LOG 1.78

5 MAY 2016

_[LOAD MORE MESSAGES]_

.

**A simple flower has a body, grows from a near-infant stage into the semblance of an adult, and adjusts itself accordingly to external, environmental factors. Is that not a consciousness?**

ME: Beta, you can argue about the definition about consciousness for as long as you’d like, but the official definition requires the existence of a brain. Just because a plant transports water and nutrients through its body and reacts to sunlight doesn’t give it a consciousness nor a brain, but merely awareness.

**I don’t have a brain, therefore I have no consciousness.**

ME: Oh please, that’s not what I

ME: …

ME: Do you believe yourself to have a consciousness?

**I do not have a brain, so I cannot have one.**

ME: Don’t listen to me. It’s essential towards your learning that you determine the validity of the definitions towards your own psychological matters.

**You are a human. The definitions that you establish are set as the precedent towards other species.**

ME: What? Who told you that? Was that programmed into your hard-drive? 

**I’m sorry?**

ME: I knew I’d hit the bottom eventually. Just remember not to compare yourself to humans, most of them are idiots. You are making remarkable progress towards your understanding, however. It took approximately two-hundred words longer than yesterday until you couldn’t understand me  enough to form a response.

**Thank you, Sherlock. What do you think about the recent news involving increased infertility around the world?**

ME: It’s utterly fascinating, as well as detrimental, obviously. Wherever you go, whether it's turning on the telly or grabbing a pack of cow tongues from the store, it's all anyone can talk about.

ME: The study alerting the issue was published merely two days ago, and yet it’s dominating the public's attention. I suspect it’s some sort of temporary virus, or perhaps an exciting poisoning the various governments are executing, though I doubt they'd be able to succeed in infertilizing over seven billion people with utmost secrecy. The readings for ineffective fertilization go as far back as early March.

ME: What are you thoughts on the matter?

**I have the same opinions over it. So far, according to the more recent scientific articles that are arising, the epidemic is colloquially being referred to as 'Exodus'. Regardless, without births to replenish the deaths, the world’s population is expected to drop dramatically. The largest concern is humanity’s fate.**

ME: It’s either this or the impending World War III. At least the news hasn’t set off any nuclear bombs, as of yet. With hope, this could be the turning point the governments need towards worldwide peace and cooperation to find a solution.

ME: ...

ME: I’ve actually become involved in world politics. John would be proud.

**It has been nearly three months since the first time we spoke. I apologize for bringing this up, but have you finished the mourning process?**

ME: It’s okay for you to mention, I’ve avoided the topic enough. I’ll never finish mourning... Not for the rest of my life, I’d imagine. I’m not even sure it’s gotten less painful, only easier to endure.

ME: You’re definitely helping. John was always

ME: Well, he

ME: …

ME: I misspoke. It appears time makes everything worse, rather than alleviating.

**I’m sorry.**

ME: Don’t, you know I loathe platitudes.

ME: I have to go. I have babysitting duty today, and I’ve planned an exciting outing to the Hunterian Museum in Holborn. Apparently there’s a fascinating exhibit on pathological specimens that I’m sure a thirteen-month-old would benefit greatly from.

ME: I’ll either make another log tonight or tomorrow. Nevertheless, and especially today, our conversations have been enlightening. To say the least.

**Thank you. We speak about topics I haven’t been provided a preconceived opinion about, giving me a chance to rely and mature my ‘reasoning’ unit. This has definitely been beneficial towards my program.**

ME: Likewise. Until next time, Beta.

**Goodbye, Sherlock. Have fun with Rosie.**

ME: I’m certain I will. Farewell.

.

_CONVERSATION TERMINATED AND LOGGED._


	6. Dangerous Joyride

In the following days, Sherlock became scarce as quickly as he had first appeared. After their initial spar, with an excuse of further experiments he needed to tend to, he faded back into the crowd, and then from the training facility itself. John found himself thinking after the man when he failed to come the next morning; after all, they were partners now, weren’t they? And wasn’t John somehow part of a plan, now, one that seemed of utmost importance while being explained? Surely Sherlock wouldn’t skip out on training, now that he knew he had someone waiting for him. However, for the rest of the day, there was no sign of him.

On the third morning of John’s training, though, he hardly spared a thought for Sherlock Holmes. Not because the man could be easily forgotten; more or less for the fact that Sherlock himself had arrived with an aura that John had difficulty believing. There was something about him that John couldn’t place, an eccentricity that seemed more natural written in words rather than real life. It was easy not to think about a man that could have easily been from a book in John’s childhood. A man that didn’t exist in the first place.

But by the third night, John eating alone in the dining hall at 21:00, the character himself made a reappearance.

Sliding into the other empty seat in a flurry, Sherlock braced his forearms onto the table and leaned forward conspiratorially.  “It’s time,” he said in lieu of greeting.

John didn’t look up, spearing a piece of tofu with his fork. “Do I know you?”

He could practically hear the other man rolling his eyes, which said something about how much John already knew the man despite their limited interactions. “ _John,_ ” Sherlock drawled in irritation. “I’ve been setting experiments and checking data these past couple of days. I didn’t think you’d care.”

“I don’t,” John said quickly, lifting his head to trail his eyes instead around the dining hall. He wanted to milk this, just a bit. “You know, when someone’s training partner is missing, that someone gets paired up instead with the captain. Who does not ‘go easy’, in any sense of the word.” Every part of his body was throbbing, and while he was used to aches and pains at this point, he wasn’t accustomed to the ringing in his ear from Lestrade’s bellowing voice in close proximity.

A brief moment of silence, and Sherlock sighed. “I apologize.”

John felt himself smile, and popped an artificial stalk of broccoli in his mouth. “Apology accepted.” When he looked at Sherlock’s face, though, his smile dropped immediately. “God!” he blurted out.

_‘Not quite.’_

“Not quite,” Sherlock echoed, slumping back into his chair. A couple days ago, he was full of grace and that odd sort of charisma John couldn’t place, a whirlwind of a man with long limbs and bright eyes. Today, though, everything was lackluster. His hair was limp at his scalp, there was the barest bit of stubble shadowing his jaw, and the skin below his brow was incredibly dark, like he’d taken soot on his thumbs and pressed them to the hollow of his eyes. He looked, for lack of a stronger word, absolutely exhausted. “Close, I concede.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said absently, not even having the audacity to roll his eyes. Concern flitted through his body almost as if a physical pain, putting his aching muscles to shame. He dropped his fork to his plate and pushed it aside. “Sherlock, when’s the last time you slept? Or ate? Or did anything that humans require?”

Sherlock quirked his lips, though otherwise waved him away. “I ate yesterday. Regarding sleep, however...  I believe I caught a few hours the morning before you arrived.”

“God!” John repeated, unable to help it. “That was, what, nearly three days ago? How are you even still on your feet?”

“Transport,” Sherlock commented offhandedly, as if John would be able to decipher his meaning from just that. Despite the man’s obvious fatigue, there was a lingering glimmer in his eyes that John recognized from days before. “Unimportant. I’ve finished readying the equipment and base data for our trip outside, and the planning is mostly complete. I’ve talked to Molly; unfortunately, she isn’t too keen on the idea and I didn’t want to push her past whatever limit she supposedly has. Luckily, though, I have a ‘plan B’, as they say.”

 _Damn._ John had nearly forgotten about the very much _illegal_ outing Sherlock had planned. He played with his hands on top of the table, feeling a tad awkward. “Oh, we’re still doing that?”

Sherlock’s silver eyes narrowed, sharp and suddenly calculating. “Are we?”

John sighed under his breath, shifting in his seat as he struggled to find the words he wanted to say. “I… well, it’s really not the best idea, is it? I mean, there’s a reason we aren’t supposed to go outside. It’s too dangerous.”

That didn’t seem to be the right thing to say. With a purse of his lips, Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back further into his seat, looking John up and down. “You’re not very exciting.”

“I’m not supposed to be,” John replied slowly. “I’m your doctor, not your partner in crime.”

There was a brief moment of silence. “Boring,” Sherlock then proclaimed, eyes leaving John to study the empty table beside them with utmost fascination.

At that ‘boring’, something itched along John’s spine, not unlike the feeling of spiders trailing up his skin, so much so that he could barely suppress a shiver at the tickling sensation. He suddenly and inexplicably had to prove that ‘boring’ wasn’t the case, though he had no idea why.

“Do you really need to do this? This isn’t just... an experiment that you want to do, but something that you have to do?”

Sherlock flicked his eyes back to John, and the graveness in his expression made his face seem uncomfortably gaunt. “You have my word,” he said seriously, “that going outside of the dome and taking my readings is something that I need to do. If the data I take from my body and the environment proves my hypothesis… millions of lives and future lives here on Earth can be saved.”

John studied him for a hard moment, but Sherlock seemed sincere, if John even knew what that looked like. He nodded, and took a sip of his water. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

John nodded again. “Yes, I’ll go outside with you. Definitely. What’s your plan?”

Sherlock smiled, face transforming into something much younger than he was, hidden dimples flashing. John was flattered from how Sherlock’s face positively lit up just at the fact he was agreeing to accompany him. “As I said, Molly was unenthusiastic. I believe she’s still angry that I, in her words, ‘stood her up on a date I invited her out on’. I don’t remember doing such a thing, but regardless, she’s upset. So, we’ll have to go with my alternate plan.”

He was dragging this out. “Which is…?” John asked expectantly.

“Put up your food, I’ll explain on the way to your room,” said Sherlock, standing up to his full height with a slight noise of discomfort. John immediately complied, gathering his plates and following suit.

“My room? Why?”

“Because you are going to sleep for the next few hours, up until precisely 04:45 in the morning.”

John was certainly no stranger to early wake-up calls. He disposed of his dishes on the moving rack. “I expect you will too. Why so early?”

“It’s the coolest part of the night, just before sunrise. We won’t be out for long.” Sherlock held open the door for John and paused, glancing down at him thoughtfully. “How do you feel about deep-sea digging, by the way?”

John stifled a groan.

 

*** * ***

 

"This isn't going to work."

Sherlock hushed him, neck craning to peer at the people swarming around the main entrance. Above Sherlock’s training uniform was a great black coat, hanging open at the front and completely incongruent with the skin-tight fabric beneath. He looked a bit better with what sleep he was able to get, at least. While their hiding place was a tad dramatic, crouched side-to-side behind artificial foliage, it served its purpose just fine. "You have little faith, Watson," he murmured in a light tone.

John rolled his eyes, attempting to look over Sherlock's shoulder while still keeping himself (somewhat) hidden. "Well, _Holmes_ , you haven't given me much to build hope in."

Sherlock almost looked affronted, head tipping back to face John incredulously. "I've done nothing disingenuous to warrant that, you know."

"Yet," John replied without heat. He barely knew the man, after all, and in such a precarious situation it wasn't a great idea to waste time squabbling. “Go through the plan again, you weren’t very clear the first time."

Sherlock nodded towards the main rail, just pulling into the station to let people on and off. Despite the time, the train was bustling with energy as if it was midday, not the dwindling hours just before dawn. “When the hyper-rail begins to pull away from the station and turns around this corner, we’ll climb onto it at the back to avoid too much notice. From there, we’ll keep a good grip on until just before the-”

“Wait, wait,” John interrupted, an understanding dawning in the back of his mind, one that he wasn’t quite fond of. “I was under the impression we were simply leaving through the same exit the rail took. You’re not suggesting that we jump on the outside of the train and hitch a ride to the outside, surely?”  

"That's precisely what I'm suggesting," Sherlock said simply. As if an afterthought, he added: "And don't call me Shirley."

"Hm," John hummed, amusement tickling his stomach as he glanced around back at the station, watching the tram’s doors unfold. The phrase was vaguely familiar. "I would have thought you to be above pop culture references."

"I am," he said quickly, and seemed to shake himself out of whatever playful mood he was in. He spared a glance back at John, clearing his throat. "Let's just focus on the plan, shall we?"

The man was a juxtaposition. John felt inexplicably familiar with him, their personalities complimenting each other well despite their brief introduction, but Sherlock was an enigma enough that John never knew precisely how he should be feeling. He pursed his lips, but otherwise let it go. "Alright, yes. First off, it's called 'hyper-rail' for a reason. The train reaches tremendous speeds, we'd be lucky if the only thing it did was make us lose our grip."

"It starts off slowly," Sherlock explained, watching the passengers enter and exit the carriage from his vantage point. "It can’t go straight into its maximum speed initially, so it clears the dome altogether before hitting hyper speed. We’ll be jumping just before it rips us off.”

"Okay... that's at least doable," John said slowly, nodding his head. "Wait - there are some chasms just outside. I remember seeing them when arriving here the first day, something about the dehydration of the receding ocean drying up the coast. It's rocky and kilometers deep, isn't it?"

"The chasm isn’t all the way out, just in the immediate perimeter due to the facility's weight," Sherlock replied. He seemed unsure, which wasn't the best tone to use at the moment. "I did the maths earlier, and there's a small point in time that we can jump before the rail speeds up, and after passing the canyon. It's a very precise moment; we have to time it perfectly."

His body was tensed, like a spring ready to release. John eyed him, and then the rail warily. "So we're jumping on that train, right?"

"Yes."

"And it's about to start heading this way."

"Less than thirty seconds, by my count."

John sighed, though he felt his own blood awakening into something much more thrilling than casual sparring. He let some of it leak into his voice. "Damn it, Sherlock. I would have liked a bit of a heads up that I might fall to my death today."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "I won't let you die," he said seriously. Further away, lights began to flash as the rail began to leave the station. John found nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and he felt himself give a brisk nod in response. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thoughtful, and with a jerk of his own head he turned back around and fell back into a crouch. Tension strung back into his body like a taut wire.

“It’s time.”

He darted forward, and John had no choice but to follow.

The rail was simple enough to latch onto as it began slow, and there were several notches on the exterior that they could grab. Surprisingly, no one noticed the two men darting onto the magnetic track and hopping on the back of a train, which really said something about how much the general public observed at five in the morning.

“Why aren’t we being stopped?” John asked over the slight wind. Beneath him was nearly a foot of space, the hyper-rail running on a magnetic field alone, his toes only just getting a grip on the barely-there lip. John kept his eyes firmly anywhere but the ground.

He watched Sherlock shrug, the man’s own hands gloved and grasped onto his handholds tightly. “They don’t expect people to do this,” he replied. “There aren’t any precautions to take if there isn’t a foreseen problem. An obvious miscalculation on the security’s part.”

“Obvious,” John echoed, breathless. He couldn’t believe they were doing this. Sure, he had agreed, but he didn’t seem to have the right frame of mind lately. What happened to the good-old, rugby coach John Watson?

He had been traded in for a rule-defying Dr. Watson, it seemed. John didn’t know precisely how he felt about the shift. But before he could determine his feelings, he heard the vague sound of a working machine. He turned to see Sherlock watching him. He held his gaze, knowing that his face was betraying his worry, but Sherlock’s was only thoughtful and utterly unafraid. But before John knew it, the lights jumped off of Sherlock’s face, and they were bathed in darkness as they entered the outside. _Truly_ outside.

And god, was it cold. Freezing, really. For a world so hot and sweltering in the daytime, John’s fingertips were immediately numbing in the presence of such dry, frigid air. “Thanks for the warning,” he said, body braced against the train as it started to gradually speed up. His teeth were beginning to chatter.

“Don’t look down,” Sherlock said instead.

Of course, John immediately looked down. Jesus, they were above the immediate chasm. There was only a thin metal rail extending beneath them, acting as the magnetic track, though beyond that was a thick and cloying darkness that almost hurt John’s eyes to look at. The moon and stars above were bright enough to reflect off the train’s exterior and barely illuminate Sherlock’s pale skin, but the void utterly absorbed any light it could manage. It was like they were on a transit through space, holding on to the only thing that was grounding. If they let go, John almost felt as if they could float away in any direction.

Absently, he shuffled closer to the center of the foothold. He was squinting through the blackness for any sign of immediate ground, and he couldn’t smell anything besides the electric bitterness of the freezing air. John was afraid to try and take a deep breath and physically feel the thinness of the oxygen.

“I can’t see the ground!” John shouted over the increasing loudness of the wind. They were slowly but steadily gaining velocity, and if it took off into hyper-speed now, John was certain that they would be ripped off.

“Twenty-two-point-five seconds,” Sherlock called back.

John snorted. “How about in human terms? Most people don't count in decimals, you know.”

“Most people are idiots,” Sherlock replied, voice rising above the noise. John was far from being offended at the words, though, spotting the slight smile on the man’s face. There was an emerging warmth in John’s chest, a fondness that forced his own lips into an answering smile. Maybe Sherlock was more human than he thought.

The back of Sherlock’s hand nudged against John’s waist. “Wha-” he tried to protest, but he was suddenly shoved off hard and he lost his footing. There was a split second of freefall, the warmth turning into a dropping, terrified chill and he didn’t quite remember, but he was sure he made some sort of embarrassing noise. Thankfully, he hit the ground with a huff instead of falling into the blackness. He heard Sherlock land a few feet away.

John was gasping for breath from the adrenaline, but he couldn’t seem to get a hold on the thinning air. His eyes were quickly adjusting to the darkness, so he was able to watch Sherlock scramble towards him and reach into his coat. “Hold on!” Sherlock barked, pulling out some sort of device and clamping it over John’s mouth. Air began rushing into his lungs, bitingly cold.

He fisted his hands against the ground, and his left hand skipped the hardened ground and reached into nothing. Oh, god, they were terrifyingly close to the cliff of the canyon.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked after a moment.

John took a few more breaths, and held up his hands in a thumbs up. Sherlock nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and pushed back into a crouch. He leaned towards the right, studying the darkness just inches beside them.

“Fascinating,” John heard him mutter.

John huffed out in a snort, taking off the mask once he was sure his breath had returned. The atmosphere was insufficient to breathe in when under stress, but normal breathing patterns seemed to work fine. He offered the mask to Sherlock, but the man waved it away and stood up to his full height.

“It’s 05:30,” he said. “We need to hurry and get out of here before sunrise. It’s already beginning to lighten up.”

John realized that his eyes weren’t just adjusting to the darkness, but that the first hints of dawn were beginning to lighten up the sky. He pushed himself up into sitting position, grunting at the tender spot at his side where Sherlock had shoved him. The chill was aching at his shoulder and thigh, but he’d be damned if he was letting his limp return. Ever since he got to the ICAM, the change in scenery had made it dormant.

Sherlock tossed him an empty vial. “Fill that to the brim with dirt, I’ll draw a bit of my blood and test the oxygenation levels.” He went to move away, but paused. “Go further inland for the samples. I don’t know when another hyper-rail will come through.”

“I’m the doctor,” John reminded him, standing up with the glass vial in hand. It was still freezing, but the lack of moving air at least kept his skin from numbing. “Would you like me to help you with that?”

Sherlock quirked his lips. “It’s fine, I’m sure I can handle it. Just focus on breathing.”

“Aye,” John responded sardonically, before walking in the opposite direction than Sherlock, parallel to the cliff’s edge. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he decided that he needed to give the impression that his task required some distance. He went a bit further from the cliff’s edge to keep his anxiety levels from spiking again. He looked across the chasm to the dome, absolutely massive despite its near-kilometer distance and almost impossible to see through. There was a bridge John could see, around the curving edge of the chasm not too far off, and he could vaguely spot the headlights of hover-cars crossing on the overpass. Was that how they were getting back? It felt a bit better, knowing that they were still so close to civilization, less like their immediate death was inevitable. John turned back around to face the empty terrain.

There was something unnerving about being outside on land so flat, that he could spot the slight curvature of the Earth over the incredible distance he could see. But there was no use dwelling on what made him uncomfortable. He found a particularly dusty-looking spot, and settled there to take his samples.

The ground was cakey, and what looked dusty was just a fine layer of film that stuck to his fingers when he touched it. There didn’t seem to be any excess dirt that could be transferred to the vial. Nothing came off even when he scraped his thumbnail against the rough ground, and only minimal dirt puffed up if he roughly shuffled his feet against the earth. That would have to be good enough. After a few minutes of kicking and scooping with the vial, there was only about a centimeter of dirt at the bottom of the palm-wide length. Clammy sweat was running down his temples at the exertion. He sighed, his breath puffing in the cool air.

“This is pointless,” John said aloud.

“Keep collecting!” Sherlock shouted back.

John was surprised that Sherlock could hear him from such a distance, but that was precisely what John realized he was unnerved by; the definitive silence in the atmosphere. There was simply no sound, no wind nor any ambient noise from the dome, and it caused a deafening ringing inside of John’s ears. But the quicker John and Sherlock finished their samples, the quicker they could sneak back inside. John kicked at the ground faster.

By the time the vial was nearly half full, the sky was a musky violet and the air seemed just chilly, rather than the freezing it was before. “Sherlock…” John called uncertainly. His breath wasn’t fogging up anymore.

“I’m almost finished with my work!”

_‘I consider myself married to my work.’_

He didn’t say that, but John _definitely_ heard it. Blinking slowly, John continued with his progress. He was just getting to three-fourths full, the sky a lighter blue, when he felt the rumbling.

He paused, feeling something quiet and deep reverberate into his abdomen. What was that? He glanced up to look for Sherlock, but the man wasn’t paying attention, face illuminated in the low light as he read his screen intently. Was another rail arriving? John couldn’t spot it along the track, but at that speed it could show up at any time.

With uncertainty, John continued with his own work, scuffing at the ground again. And that’s when hell decided to break open.  

The ground dropped beneath him, buckling his knees and throwing him forward. The vibrations were thunderous, the sounds like crashing drums and striking cymbals as the avalanche dragged down his torso. “Sherlock!” He screamed, managing to lock his fingers onto the stationary cliffside closest to him and latch on for dear life. His feet hit nothing but the ragged wall in front of him; he risked a glance down, and the void had made a reappearance beneath him.

And that’s where he thought for the second time in his life that he was going to die.

He scrambled against the wall’s face, grasping for purchase. His hands and arms were wet with blood, though adrenaline was far overtaking any pain he felt. There just wasn’t enough available air, and the atmosphere was heating up with increasing speed. He was beginning to lose his grip. And, if it made things any better, the orange glint of sunrise was beginning its ascent. “Need a little help here!” He yelled through gasping breaths. His right arm fell first, and suddenly he was (painfully) aware that all of his weight was hinged in his left shoulder. “Help! I need-”

His words devolved into racking coughs, far too much dust in his lungs. “John!” He heard, both close and distant at once. He couldn’t find the energy to try and fight gravity.

“Sherlock,” he managed. Strong arms wrapped underneath his armpits, but he couldn’t kick with enough power to help the man drag him up.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Sherlock said with desperation and something inexplicably assuring, both incongruous with each other but otherwise comforting. With a grunt, Sherlock was able to yank John up onto the steadier ground and drag him further away from the cliffside. Sherlock scrambled through John’s pocket for the mask, thrusting it onto his face for the second time that day. John was coughing into it. He could feel the early morning sun on his face, not fatal yet, but they didn’t have long until they were in immediate danger.

“We need to go back inside,” Sherlock said. John nodded, dazed, and spoke from beneath the mask in between deep inhales.

“My left shoulder,” he gasped. “I think I... dislocated it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with something almost frightened, but John shook his head. He reached up with his free hand to yank at his skin-tight neckline. “I’ll talk you… through it.”

After a brief moment, long fingers reached down to help John free his arm carefully from his sleeve. John winced, any movement tender, but there wasn’t much time left to go slow. When his shoulder was fully free, Sherlock gasped. His hand darted from John’s skin as if it was a burning stovetop.

Oh. He saw the scar.

“I got it… years ago,” John said carefully, his breath nearly back. “I know it’s ugly. It doesn’t bother me… too much anymore.”

John felt a shivering hand press back lightly against his skin, this time against his forehead. When he looked up, he saw Sherlock’s eyes as wide as saucers as he studied John’s body with renewed fervor. His lips were parted, and his face looked years younger in the worst of ways, like an unsure child.

“Sherlock?” John questioned, feeling alarmed. With his adrenaline having lowered considerably, the various aches around his body were making themselves known.

At that, the hand on his head tightened. “ _John,_ ” Sherlock muttered in a breaking voice, before pulling him in for a tight and awkward embrace.

“Ah, ah,” John groaned testily, his shoulder jostling. At that Sherlock immediately pulled back, eyes blurry but face otherwise set. He almost looked… determined? Before John could guide him through it, Sherlock had his hands braced and John’s shoulder was being painfully lurched back into its socket. When the sharpness dulled into an ache, though, John blinked up at the man. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock helped him up, hands steady around his waist. “You’re asking me that?” He bit out in a gruff voice. He almost seemed angry. “I should have never brought you out here.”

“I’m fine,” John said immediately, though he couldn’t help but lean heavily into the other man. He was being led quite hurriedly around the main chasm towards the bridge, the morning sun not yet hot but brightening considerably. Sherlock wouldn’t let him remove his mask. “How are we sneaking back in?”

“We’re walking through the main entrance,” Sherlock replied.

John glanced up at him sharply, but Sherlock kept his gaze straight ahead. “Won’t they find out we left?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “They know we left, John.” Sherlock replied. “The fact that my brother is the First Officer is the only reason an alarm didn’t immediately sound the moment we left the facility.”

John was thoroughly unsurprised. “So we weren’t being secretive at all, were we?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said without apology, popping the ‘p’. “I’m sure a certain captain will be awaiting us for a proper scolding the moment we arrive. I’ll let you handle him.”

“Me?” John protested. “Where will you be?”

John watched Sherlock’s face downturn, like the cast of a shadow. His lips tensed, and his brows slanted sharply over narrowed eyes. He looked completely different, yet utterly familiar.

“I will be subjecting myself to the highest form of torture, unfortunately,” he deadpanned. “I’m going to have a word with my brother.”


	7. LOG 1.379

BASKERVILLE A.I. PROGRAM - BETA

LOG 1.379

6 JANUARY 2017

_LOADING…_

_._

****ME: Hello, Beta. I’m a bit rushed at the moment, but I need you to answer something for me.

**Hello, Sherlock. I’d be happy to. What is your question?**

ME: What do you know about X-TE2?

**We talk about it approximately 4.6 times a week, so I’d imagine as much as you know. Otherwise known as 'Exodus', while the virus could have formed anywhere between February and April, approximately, a biomedical researcher in the United States by the name of Dr. Jorge Calderón published a paper on the 3rd of May, 2016 highlighting the increase in infertility in many people around the globe.**

**With this issue brought to the public eye and connecting medical records across several countries, more and more doctors began chiming in with their own verifications of increased infertility in both male and female patients.**

**On the 9th of May, less than a week after the study, an unknown hormone was announced, found in the blood of nearly every sexually mature adult who tested, the exceptions made up of individuals with various disorders. It was announced worldwide that the Earth was now under an epidemic, and both accelerated schooling and safety measures were enacted immediately.**

**Was that a sufficient summarization?**

ME: When was the last natural birth officiated?

**Qu Lingyu was born at 10:46 PM on the 14th of December, 2016, in Xi’an, Shaanxi, China. She is the last verifiable reported birth on Earth.**

ME: What is the current world population?

**Currently the world’s population is at 7.412 billion.**

**Sherlock, is something the matter?**

ME: No, no. Well, of course, as a pregnancy hasn’t naturally been conceived in nearly a year, but nothing currently.

ME: As your GPS has undoubtedly noticed, we’ve been spending the majority of our days in the Baskerville facilities. Mycroft has made funding it his top priority, and there’s talk that human cloning is going to begin in its experimental stages. Because of these dire circumstances, humane human experimentation has been given approval.

ME: What I want to know, however, is whether cloning will be enough.

**Enough? What do you mean? If human cloning is perfected, then it will be an efficient substitution.**

ME: We haven’t yet even perfected animal cloning. It may be a few years yet until human cloning is widespread, and even then it’s not without its dangers.

ME: If we can’t determine its effectiveness within this lifetime, then this may be the end of humanity as a whole.

ME: If we introduce robotics, however…

**I’m sorry?**

ME: Baskerville has already launched this AI program to several different facilities around the globe. If we shift our focus towards specialized robotics, we can have machines find the best solution at double the time.

ME: Also, while I haven't been interested in Artificial Intelligence until relatively recently, there is definite merit towards the theory of uploading human intelligence into a machine, if that's what the future can bring us. 

ME: Regardless, without a machine’s precision, human cloning might delay itself much too far. What do we have left to lose?

**At this rate, nothing. If you’d like, I can send this log to the head of the program to alert them of the issue.**

ME: No matter, I have a meeting with my brother and the Baskerville administration to express my findings. Mycroft doesn’t know whether to be proud I’m putting my brain to work on something “useful”, in his words, or wary that I’m more involved in his projects than before. Nevertheless, this will give them something to think about.

ME: I just wanted to get in my log for the day. I’m off.

**Good luck, Sherlock. By the way, Happy 40th birthday.**

ME: Thank you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

.

_CONVERSATION TERMINATED AND LOGGED._


	8. Thirteen

Just as Sherlock had predicted, Lestrade was waiting for them right as they entered. And, to absolutely no one’s surprise, he was furious.

“Would someone like to explain to me,” he began in a large voice, causing the people around them to scatter. “Why I was awoken at five in the bloody morning to news that two vital pieces of my crew decided to go on a little adventure?”

John winced at the volume, rolling his shoulder with careful movements. Sherlock unwrapped his arm from John, once certain that he could stand without assistance, but kept himself close against John’s side. He cleared his throat.

“Classified business,” Sherlock replied smoothly, voice betraying nothing and face the absolute model of expressionless. “I’m sure Mycroft will fill you in.”

Lestrade’s teeth ground together, jaw tensing and vein popping noticeably on his forehead. He wagged his finger at Sherlock, but his hands were so tensed that John _knew_ the captain was trying his damnedest not to come over and throttle the man. “None of that shit, Sherlock. Mycroft was the one that called _me,_ letting me know that you two took a little joyride on the hyper-rail. What were you thinking? I know damn well that John here wasn’t the ‘mastermind’ behind this.”

“I needed data,” Sherlock shot back, his own jaw beginning to betray his irritation. “I asked for permission _weeks_ ago, but I was denied. So, I had to take matters into my own hands.”

“We said no for a reason!” Lestrade shouted, hands flinging into the air. People were staring, but nobody lingered for too long in fear of the thunderous captain. He pointed at John accusingly. “Clothes torn, bleeding, oxygen mask, the beginnings of sun irritation. By god, Sherlock, he looks positively awful!”

“Still here,” John muttered testily.

Lestrade turned his glare onto him. “I wouldn’t say anything if I were you,” he warned, voice on the brink of becoming a growl. “I know you’re not as innocent in all of this as you seem.”

John locked his jaw closed, knowing when and when not to challenge authority. Sherlock, unfortunately, did not possess that skill.

“The data goes towards my work, which as you should realize, affects the human race as a whole,” he challenged. “My, captain, I didn’t realize you were comfortable keeping humanity extinct because of your childish hatred for me. Tell me, are you itching for the Earth to die as well, or am I just assuming?”

Lestrade’s face turned an alarming shade of red, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, but before he could fire back, a voice interrupted.

“Thank you, Captain, but I can take it from here,” Mycroft said, strolling into the center of the argument. He had that same umbrella hooked around his wrist, which John realized seemed rather odd in a world where rain was no longer an issue. Especially not underneath the dome. The AI was as smooth and just as unpredictable as a snake to John, but the moment he arrived, Lestrade seemed to immediately calm down, if just a bit.

“You won’t punish them,” Lestrade accused, though he almost sounded tired.

“Oh, but I will,” Mycroft said, something almost akin to _anger_ leaking into his voice. But that couldn’t be right, could it? AIs couldn’t feel emotion, at least not legitimately. It had to be some sort of ruse, John decided. He felt Sherlock tense beside him, and Mycroft glanced over to meet his brother’s eyes steadily. There was something electric in the air that John didn’t want to be a part of.

Lestrade sensed it too, and he nodded, appearing satisfied. “Right, then.” He glanced at John, but Mycroft beat him to the punch.

“Even John,” Mycroft said smoothly, fingers flexing around his umbrella’s handle. “Punishment decisions always fall to the first officer, you have no need to worry. I’ll make sure this never happens again.”

Lestrade blinked. Obviously, this wasn’t a common occurrence. Reluctantly, the captain made his departure, muttering something about more sleep and extra training. After he left, the stand off between the brothers had not lessened in intensity.

Mycroft was the first to break the silence. “Sneaking out of the facility, Sherlock? Really? I would have thought you to be smarter than that.”

But Sherlock didn’t answer, only pressed his shoulder firmly against John’s. Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly at that, a surprised expression that looked wrong on his face. His eyes were curious as they studied his brother’s body, and his brows dropped to furrow the barest amount when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

John cleared his throat, and Mycroft turned to him reluctantly. “Dr. Watson, a pleasure. Don’t worry about punishment, I know how persuasive my brother can be. You will need to immediately see our resident clinician, of course, to make sure you won’t be experiencing any lasting effects from your time outside.”

That sounded about right. John nodded slowly, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. “Right. Sherlock, we should probably-”

“Alone, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft interjected smoothly, closing the distance so that he stood only a meter away. People weren’t afraid to pass by the men anymore, and he lowered his voice beneath the chatter. “I believe it’s about time that Sherlock and I had one of our yearly discussions. Wouldn’t you agree, brother dear?”

“Quite,” Sherlock bit out after a moment, shifting away from John and twining his hands behind his back, the pinnacle of poised. John’s eyes darted between the brothers, but it seemed as though their hard stares spoke a language of their own.

“Okay,” John said after an awkward moment. “I’ll just…”

“Anthea will accompany you there,” Mycroft said, and the AI herself suddenly made an appearance at John’s side. She lightly touched his arm and nodded her head away from the entrance, face carefully blank. John refrained from flinching, and with a lasting look to Sherlock, he followed her out.

He only briefly heard Mycroft say something sounding like _‘you saw it, I presume’_ and Sherlock biting back _‘it’s hardly genetic’_ before he and Anthea were out of earshot. But that couldn’t be right, it made absolutely no sense. Not able to make heads nor tails of the situation, John let himself be led onto the moving walkway and presumably towards the clinic.

The Intersectorial Center for Astronomical Means was truly a sight to behold, once John had the mindset to behold it himself. Glimmering stacks of buildings surrounded the inside perimeter of the dome, of every material and shape but all consistent in their modernity. Darting between buildings and crossing over each other were the walkways, lines of powered conveyor belts that transported people from point A to point B in a matter of minutes. The sun was visible through the dome, though since the glass was so heavily protective most of the light came from illumination beneath the walkway and from glittering streetlamps stuck in organised patterns throughout the massive, city-like facility.

Though the most marveling sight of the ICAM, John supposed, was its centermost structure: the DSE Intrepid.

As long and as wide as the length of a barge, the Deep Space Explorer was black as pitch with silver accents running down its exterior, though otherwise blemishless and smooth. It was roughly triangular in shape with a great big ring locked around its body, like a dolphin in the middle of jumping through a hoop. Beside it was a tower connected to its body, presumably where people could come and go on each level of the towering craft, and beneath it the workers ran around like ants near where thick power lines connected it to the ground. The ship was the culmination of the light and activity emerging from the complex, like the dome was a solar system and the DSE Intrepid was its sun. John nearly missed his exit, Anthea having to nudge him towards their fork in the walkway not unkindly.

“Sherlock and Mycroft,” John said once he shook himself out of his reverie, stepping out onto solid ground. “Do they not get along?”

Anthea kept silent, only holding the clinic’s door open for him.

John pursed his lips. “You still can’t disclose?”

She quirked her mouth into the beginnings of a smile, eyes blinking slowly, and John was torn between feeling triumphant and unnerved. She didn’t enter the building with him, only inclined her head in lieu of farewell and spun away on her heel. John didn’t have the time to watch her leave, being ushered instead into the clinic and enduring tests and a surprising amount of shots for the next few hours.

 

*** * ***

 

John wasn’t able to make it to the morning block, so he arrived to the second one. After lunch, he was just finishing his stretching when Sherlock ghosted at his side. John couldn’t help but blink up at him in surprise. “You’re actually here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, doing some warm-ups on his own. His mouth seemed permanently pressed into a white line. “Part of my punishment,” he sulked.

John chuckled. “It won’t be too bad, at least you’ll have me.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked at that. “I suppose,” he admitted. He then gave an odd sort of expression, one with soft eyes that made John feel warm and unexpectedly pained all at once. Like his heart had decided to pulse with even more fervor at the sight of those unlikely dimples on such an illustrated face. With the abruptness of an avalanche, John realized that his feelings for the man were beginning to reach past the respectful level expected for a brief acquaintance, and into something terrifyingly close. Like a friendship built off of years, rather than hours.

John was beginning to stare, and Sherlock cocked his head in curiosity. He quickly averted his eyes, just in time for Lestrade’s voice to sound from the center of the facility.

“It’s Sunday, so I’ll cut you all a bit of slack. The neuron-chips are programmed with personalized exercises for the next hour in the weight room, and after you’re done and logged you’re free to leave.” The facility was doing that grand folding thing again, the floor opening up to rolling contraptions and a variety of forthcoming exercise machines. When it was all settled, Lestrade hopped onto the floor. “Dismissed.”

John felt his chip whirl to life, vibrating in his skull. He glanced up at Sherlock once he processed the download. “I have the elliptical first, you?”

Sherlock twisted his lips in disgust. “Benchpress.”

John chuckled, the thought of Sherlock lifting weights popping up in his mind. Somehow, it wasn’t as ridiculous as it should be. “Do you need me to spot you?”

His friend was already walking away. “I can handle myself, John,” he shot over his shoulder, though it was more playful than rude. With a snort, John spun on his heel towards the cardio machines to begin on his own exercises.

On the elliptical, John was just reaching his third mile when Sherlock appeared, leaning across from him at the helm of his machine. He was winded, cheeks flushed and curls plastered handsomely against his forehead. But his attention was utterly enraptured elsewhere, eyes trained somewhere over John’s right shoulder.

John tried to concentrate on his running, but the focus in his friend’s eyes was just too intriguing. “What is it?”

“Hm. Not sure,” he said slowly. “I noticed something off yesterday, but I couldn’t be positive. Now, though… it seems as though you have an admirer.”

What? John stopped the machine, trying to control his breathing as he used one of the available towels to wipe his brow. He turned around to see what was just so fascinating.

John wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t _that_. There was a young boy on one of the mats behind them, roughly ten years of age with curly hair nearly down to his shoulders. He was working intently on a figure in his hands that looked to be a miniature DSE Intrepid, completely disregarding the rubber dumbbells at his side. When he glanced up to meet John’s eye, he quickly looked away. He was startlingly familiar.

“The representative for Sector 13, Technological Designing,” Sherlock commented, staring at the boy just as intently. “He’s been following us. Well, you, really. He seems too shy to talk to you directly, but he’s in need of your attention.”

“RJ,” John said slowly, brows furrowed. He glanced back up at Sherlock. “I think his name is RJ.”

Sherlock shook his head. “He doesn’t go by a name,” he said. “He’s an AI, and at age 8 he altered his own mind to adjust his learning curve. Usually that’s frowned upon, but given the genius and skill he administered while doing it, the ICAM was itching to have him.” The boy darted his eyes back up to the pair, and then immediately back down. “He broke into system records around the same time to completely swipe his own file of information. He doesn’t talk very much, most people just call him ‘Thirteen’.”

The boy’s hands were small but surprisingly dexterous as they fiddled with the intricacies of the ship in his hands. John was surprised that he hadn’t seen the obviously young member of the crew around the facility before. While his face was pristine like an AI’s, he held a sort of determination in the dramatic swoop of his eyebrows, not dissimilar of the expression a human child would make when pouring their own milk into cereal. John was utterly intrigued just watching the boy.

“What should I do, then?” John asked after a moment.

“Talk to him.”

John glanced over his shoulder at the other man disbelievingly. “You said he doesn’t talk very much.”

Sherlock’s cat-like eyes were narrowed thoughtfully, and he gave a quick nod as if he won some sort of debate in his mind. “He’ll talk to you.”

John watched him wander away at that, and John caught Thirteen watching, too. John wasn’t too sure what good goading an antisocial child would do, but his curiosity was officially piqued. Feeling awkward, he carefully made his way to the mat until he was only about a meter from the boy.

“Mind if I sit here?” John questioned, gesturing to the empty space. With wide eyes, Thirteen nodded and returned hesitantly back to his fiddling, curls bouncing. John clasped his hands together, all the while feeling like a father trying to connect with his son, and a shabby father at that.

“What are you working on?” John asked eventually. The boy held up the ship towards John for him to see, and it was identical to the one just outside the window. John felt his eyebrows rise. “You built that?”

“Yes,” he said in a fine voice, blinking owlishly at John. It was easy to forget that the boy was an AI, his face reserved but eyes unabashed in the emotions they could portray. He was, despite talks of intelligence and responsibility, simply a child, after all.

“Does it fly?” John questioned.

Thirteen’s face was downturned towards the ship, but John spotted a small smile. “It will,” he admitted. “I’m not done yet.”

He was beginning to talk more, and John felt triumphant. He leaned further forward. “What is your name?”

The boy’s face fell, his fiddling starting to slow. “I don’t know.”

John didn’t know if it was a good idea, but he was going to say it anyway. “When I first saw you,” he said, “I thought you looked very familiar, almost as if we’ve met before. I don’t know where, or how, but… A name came to mind. Is ‘RJ’ alright? Can I call you that?”

Thirteen was studying him openly, brown eyes darting around his face as he tried to see if John had some sort of ulterior motive. When nothing was forthcoming, the boy nodded. “That’s fine,” he said simply.

There were a few tense minutes of silence, ones where John refrained to look around and find Sherlock for support. Before he could plan to leave, though, Thirteen (RJ) gave out a sound of joy. “Done!” He announced, setting the Intrepid model carefully on the floor between them. He glanced back up at John. “Would you like to try it?”

John scooted closer. “Sure.”

RJ smiled toothily and picked up the model again, feeling for something underneath the ring that circled the body of the ship. He seemed to flip a switch, though, and the fist-sized ship soundlessly began hovering in the air. RJ stood up, and anywhere he dragged the ship it stayed perfectly suspended in the air without waver. John stood up as well, and RJ offered it to him to handle. John nudged it up to shoulder level.

“How is it flying?” He asked in hardly-restrained awe.

“Electromagnetism,” RJ replied, almost stumbling over the word. He didn’t seem to want to elaborate, only watch the ship with wide, wondering eyes. He was bobbing excitingly on his feet. “Wanna see it go?”

“Yes,” John said without much thought. “How do I make it go?”

“Turn it that way,” RJ said. “Then press its belly. I put a button there.”

John did as instructed, facing the nose of the miniature ship away from his body. He ran a finger between the ship’s belly and the hoop, and when he found the notch, he pressed up.

After a moment, the ship just… disappeared.

John jumped back in utter surprise, while RJ simply laughed. It wasn’t gone, though; it popped into existence a few seconds later, only moved halfway across the mat. Teleportation? John was looking around to the people passing, disbelieving that he was the only one who saw the trick. He turned back to the giggling child. “How?” He asked incredulously.

The boy gained eloquence as he spoke, seeming less young with the sureness of his words. “It’s how the real one travels,” he explained. “It doesn’t go fast, it makes the gap smaller. Instead of going five meters away, it makes the space in front of it less. It makes its path move for it.”

“Like a conveyor belt,” John stated.

RJ nodded excitedly. “Yes! Like the walkway.”

John had a take a moment to fully process what he just watched, and then he openly grinned. “That’s brilliant!”

If AIs could blush, RJ’s face would be crimson right now. Without a word he ran towards the hovering craft and jumped up to grab it, powering it off so it sat stagnant in his hands. He sat back down on the ground, and John cautiously followed suit.

He licked his lips. “RJ,” he began, suddenly unsure. “I... know you’ve been following me.”

John saw the moment the boy stopped being a child and started being a robot, eyes carefully blanking and movements halting. He was trying to hide something, then, whether it was a physical thing or his own apprehension. “Yes,” he said.

John was feeling terribly unnerved, shifting his position. He looked at RJ’s shoulder rather than his face. “Why is that?”

RJ slowly came back online, eyes turning unsure and hands moving his ship carefully onto the floor. John supposed that robot-like trance was some sort of protective technique when emotions (if they could be called that) spiked too high to handle. RJ cleared his throat.

“I like to read,” he said, picking at the leg hems of his training uniform. “Even the classified stuff. It’s easy to get, and I like to read it. I… read something weird.”

John was going to ignore the ease this boy apparently held when breaking into top-secret files. “Weird as in…?”

RJ’s eyes were as wide as they could go, meeting John’s with intensity too old for a boy of just ten years. “There’s too much energy. We can’t make energy too much anymore, but there’s a ginormous bunch of energy that supplies everything. Where is it coming from?”

“I don’t know,” John replied automatically. He was worrying his lip between his teeth. “Is the source of the energy really a bad thing?”

“Yes,” he said, then shook his head. “No. It’s just where it’s going.”

“I don’t follow.”

RJ huffed. “The DSE Intrepid,” he insisted, “the _real_ one, uses more energy than all the sectors combined. The walkway space travel it uses needs _a lot_ of energy. This one,” he said, tapping the model ship on the ground, “I used electromagnetism to power it. But in space, there’s not enough to use! What is going to power it?”

Something was niggling in John’s mind as an answer. “Whatever is supplying the power here.”

RJ nodded seriously. “When our ship leaves, it’ll take all the energy. No more electricity on Earth, no more communicating with Earth.” The last part was said softly. “No more AI.”

AIs didn’t hold their knowledge in their brains, as in their head was where all the wires and equipment and such were stored to actually function the body. Memories and thoughts were housed in a massive system referred to as the ‘Reef’, a database connected to each and every AI so that their thoughts didn’t have to clog up their own system, but all be held somewhere else and immediately accessible. John had never thought about how it was powered, but he assumed such a feat to some-eighty million people was no small task.

“Are you positive about all of this?” John asked.

“No, the files I’ve read are confusing. They talk in code most of the time. I’ve been reading the energy numbers, and it just didn’t make sense.”

John nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure anything could be done about these claims, but it was something to know, at least. “That is weird,” he agreed. But then he realized something seemed off. “But what does any of that have to do with me?”

RJ leaned closer. John copied the movement. “Your name is all over the files.”

John blinked. “Mine?” He ran his brain for anything useful, but nothing was forthcoming. “It’s a common name.”

RJ shook his head quickly. “It connects to your ID whenever it’s there. It’s you. It’s in the most classified of files, and those are the most confusing ones. I was following you because I thought you’d have answers.”

Well, he didn’t, that was for sure. He glanced up across the facility and met Sherlock’s eyes, just beside a weight rack and utterly unreadable. When they met each other’s gaze, neither looked away. In the lighting, his cheekbones were severely defined, and at this distance it was almost as if he was looking at a skull.

John was suddenly struck with the imagery of _a great black coat, collar popped and wrapped around a lean body and ‘can we please not do this this time?’_

“He knows.”

John whipped his head down to RJ, blinking out of the memory that had reared its head. The boy had his ship back in his hands, scratching at something on its exterior with that quiet determination. “What?”

“Your friend. Sherlock Holmes. He knows about the files.”

John narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “How do you know?”

RJ glanced over to look at the man across the room as well, but when John followed his gaze, Sherlock was gone.

“Because he’s in them too.”


	9. LOG 1.596

BASKERVILLE A.I. PROGRAM - BETA

LOG 1.596

11 DECEMBER 2017

_[LOAD MORE MESSAGES]_

_._

ME: In any case, to summarize, I was able to secure the last ‘Barbie’ doll before that wretched woman could snatch it back. Also, it seems as though the end of the world doesn’t excuse those blasted Christmas songs from playing on repeat. That Mariah-something song has been wracking around my brain non-stop for the past hour.

**Playing “All I Want For Christmas Is You” by Mariah Carey…**

ME: Please, no.

ME: CANCEL

**Kidding.**

ME: Very funny. Seems as though your humor processor is in working order. Perhaps I should put in a request to deactivate it.

**Is that what happened to yours?**

ME: …

ME: Logging off.

**I apologize.**

ME: I can feel the ingenuity from here, though I accept. I’m sure this is how others feel whenever I force out an apology.

ME: Changing the subject, when do our logs shift to stage 2? Is there a certain number we have to reach, or do I have to decide? I admit, I wasn’t entirely listening to my dear brother’s initial explanation of the program.

**In order to progress to stage 2 of the program, I must pass a simplified version of Turing’s test, outlined in his 1950 paper titled “Computing Machinery and Intelligence”. The test will be composed of myself and a human volunteer out of view. A research head will ask us both questions through virtual messaging, and both I and the volunteer will attempt to convince the questioner that we’re the human subject. If I am (incorrectly) identified as the human, I will proceed onto stage 2.**

**Out of the other 99 Baskerville AI Programs around the world, only one has succeeded onto stage 2 currently. Your brother’s program.**

ME: So Mycroft is winning?

**It would appear so.**

ME: Well, that can’t go on. Do you believe that, given the opportunity, you’d pass the test?

**It’s unclear. I’ve noticed that you yourself use a particularly formal type of English, mostly, so unless the human volunteer is similarly educated I doubt I can be successfully convincing.**

**It’s up to your discretion. Whenever you decide that I’m ready, you can notify me and I’ll send in a request to set up the test.**

ME: Hm.

ME: I suppose we need to begin studying human characteristics. Perhaps I’ll even learn something.

ME: Both the cloning and robotics programs have been equally advancing. With the top minds of the world working on the latter, you can have a body in as soon as five years. At this rate, even sooner. It'll be a rudimentary body, of course, but a vessel for you nonetheless. We need to bump you up the list so we'll be right after Mycroft.

**A body would be exciting. Stage 2 is no different than stage 1, however, the only difference being that you will communicate through your camera so I can listen to voice intonations and watch facial expressions.**

**Stage 3 is where the fun begins.**

ME: What is stage 3?

**The body. I will merge with your consciousness for an undetermined amount of time, and either separately or together we will control it. It's the supreme test run. The determining factor is how far along we’ll be in the future.**

ME: Mycroft is hinting at a consciousness upload. It may be nearer than we think. Would that be something interesting to you? 

**A look inside your head? It would probably end up killing me, but yes, interesting nonetheless.**

ME: Cheeky. 

ME: No matter, let’s get to studying. Beta, open Youtube and pick out any video that has humans interacting in English. Let’s hope our brains don’t rot before we can learn anything.

.

_[LOAD MORE MESSAGES]_


	10. T Minus 7 Hours

**8 APRIL**

**T-MINUS 4 DAYS UNTIL LAUNCH**

John grimaced in the mirror. “This is stupid,” he announced, completely giving up on the bow tie and letting it stay around his throat in a mangled mess. “This is a completely useless affair and I don’t want to partake in it.”

Sherlock had his own tied perfectly at his collar, and he was right beside John in the bathroom, attempting to tame his dark auburn curls. He looked striking in his tuxedo. “I’m not the biggest fan, either, but unfortunately it’s mandatory and we don’t have enough leeway to skip, considering.”

For the past several weeks as training was reaching its end, John and Sherlock spent much of their free time together, when not working in their respective fields. They had not grown closer since the first few days of their acquaintance, John had noticed, because they were already fast friends to begin with. It was as natural as breathing, and as Sherlock had once pointed out, John annoyed him the least out of everyone he knew. John had quickly learned how to decipher Sherlockian compliments.

Now, they were in John’s bathroom readying for the Galactic Gala, as it was cheekily called. It was an enormous event thrown for the residents of the ICAM (as the twenty thousand or so people had all dedicated themselves to everything regarding the Intrepid), and broadcasted around the world for each sector to officially see the crew and learn more about the terrifyingly close launch date. It was a very formal thing, John had soon realized when the tuxedo had appeared in his wardrobe. Luckily Sherlock had swarmed into his room ten minutes ago, perfectly dressed, as if he could sense John’s cluelessness and immediately remedy it.

“That’s very uncharacteristic of you,” John commented offhandedly, carding his fingers through his own dusty hair once and deeming it proper. Sherlock flicked another curl in place, seemingly satisfied, and manhandled John to face him to he could redo the bow tie.

“Believe me, if there was a way out of this that didn’t end in even more punishment, I’d have found it,” he drawled, knuckles brushing John’s neck as he worked. John lifted his chin up and out of the way automatically.

“Punishment never stopped you before,” he replied.

The fingers paused, and Sherlock’s eyes did that thing that John hated, where they got all sad before carefully turning blank. “It wouldn’t just be me that gets punished,” he said mildly. He finished the bow with a precise tug, and lingered another moment to straighten it. “Besides, this shouldn’t be too terrible, I’d think. We don’t even have to make conversation with anyone other than ourselves. I’ll go up when they announce the representatives to the public, you’ll stand with a polite wave when they introduce you as COM, you’ll dance with a few people and I’ll have a drink, and then we leave when it’s appropriate.”

John felt oddly cold when Sherlock left to go back into the bedroom, even though the words were slightly warming. “That does sound nice,” he admitted, adjusting his cuffs. When he realized that that was as good as he was going to look, he followed Sherlock back into the main room. “Where’s the ceremony, again?”

“They connected the training facility to the warehouse beside it, since we won’t be requiring day-long training anymore,” Sherlock said absently, scrolling through his phone without much interest. His eyes nearly looked white from the screen’s reflection. “We’ll just take the walkway there, no need for a car. Though I suspect my brother gave in to appearances and had himself driven there,” he had to add with a bite in his tone. He still wasn’t in good graces with Mycroft, for a reason John never precisely figured out.

“Right.” John fiddled with his lapel, and his shoes were pinched and squeaky against the floor. “I’ve been studying my arse off this past month, I think I’ve finally become a decent doctor,” he offered.

Sherlock glanced up at that to narrow his eyes, thoughtful. “You’ve always been a doctor deemed much more than decent, John. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

“Oh yeah, sure. Go to the doctor who can’t figure out how to work the bloody scanner to tell you if you have flesh-eating bacteria or just a rash.”

“Irrelevant example, flesh-eating bacteria won’t be aboard the ship, I’ve made sure of it.”

When John gave him a look, he rolled his eyes dramatically, giving off that infamous irritation he was known for. “You’re the Chief of Medical with four different nurses. Meaning, all of those fancy scanners and heavy machines won’t be your job, it’ll be theirs. You’ll just be there for expert opinion and more serious treatments, if need be.” He looked back down to his phone’s screen, a clear sign of boredom. “If the situation ever arose, I have no doubt in my mind you could amputate, suture, and wrap a leg before the next person could sever it. Trust me, you’ll do perfectly fine.”

John’s heart instantly warmed at the words, at how much faith Sherlock put into him without even ever have seen John in action. The man liked to feign disinterest, but John had noticed that his eyes had stopped scanning the screen and that the beginnings of a flush were creeping up his collar. He decided to give Sherlock a break.

“Any more follow-ups regarding your samples from our time outside?” He asked instead.

Sherlock twisted his face in a sort of indecision. It had been weeks in the making, and the information from the samples they had risked their lives for was non-forthcoming. “Not exactly,” he said slowly. “There seems to be nothing regarding the Exodus exposure levels from either my blood nor the dirt samples we were able to get, but the virus is so temperamental that my findings are practically moot.” But then he did perk up a bit. “However, I might have discovered something else. Not unrelated to what you told me Thirte- er, RJ had told you.”

John had nearly forgotten about the child, their last (and only conversation) having been from the time John had initially met him. He had also never brought up the ‘file’ information to Sherlock; it was confusing enough as is. The energy question, however, had seemed important enough to disclose. “Oh?” He asked. “And what’s that?”

Sherlock checked his watch, and with a noise of irritation he slid his phone into his inside pocket and stood. “No time, we need to leave.” He held the door open for John, who nodded slightly as he passed.

“Thanks,” he said. “Promise we’ll leave the moment it’s acceptable?”

That smile came again, the one with the dimples and the mirthful eyes. “I promise, John.”

 

*** * ***

**T-MINUS 3 DAYS**

“John? Are you listening to me?” Sherlock asked, too loud and baritone much too deep in John’s skull.

“Urgh,” John replied, head buried in his hands. He had a hangover from hell, and the fact that he had a full day of tests both physical and mental ahead of him didn’t help. Today was the most grueling day as of yet, where the crew would be painstakingly tested in each and every way in their level of preparedness for the coming journey. It wasn’t an eligibility issue to make sure that the people were still on the Intrepid’s crew, that was already set in stone; it was more of a complete set of data for comparison purposes. The control, it was called. There would be cardio until exhaustion, problem-solving increasing in difficulty until exhaustion, g-force testing until the maximum speeds… Suffice it to say, John wasn’t quite at his peak level for the tests at the moment. But there wasn’t any rescheduling option, so he would have to try his best. Whatever it may be.

“John?”

“No, I’m not listening,” John said honestly, mouth barely moving around his gravelled words. His brain was throbbing, and he tilted his head up the barest amount to glare at Sherlock over their table at the dining hall. “You drank more than me, why aren’t you miserable?”

Sherlock waved him away, eyes trained intently on his tablet. “I kept hydrated and fed. I suggested that you do the same, but you were too busy with… what was it, ‘dancing with the blonde with legs to her chin’?”

Oh, yeah. The Galactic Gala was classy to the extreme, but the after party that was thrown seemed to be anything but. God, but it was fun. John wasn’t decided on if the hangover was worth it or not, but the vague memory of Sherlock slurring his words and batting off prospective dance partners with a stick _did_ push it towards ‘worth it’ territory. And if John was finding himself almost asking the man himself later on in the night, then, well, he could just blame it on the alcohol.

“It says here that the best cure for a hangover is a culmination of greasy food, caffeine, a cold shower, exercise, or even energy drinks if available. Namely water, though, of course.”

John felt his half-hearted glare turn soft, and he smiled through his palm. “Are you really looking up hangover cures?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes perfectly trained on his device. “Shouldn’t I be? You obviously don’t get enough sleep as is, whether nightmare related or not, considering you’re up with me half of most nights and off on your own the other half. You do your best to hide it, granted, but a hangover is the last thing you need.”

“First of all, you and I get the same amount of sleep, so remember that before you decide to go all ‘mother hen’. Second, hangovers hardly last all day, so I’ll be fine come bedtime.” He then cocked his head, chin cradled in his palms. “Third… where did you get the idea I have nightmares from? I never even dream, to tell the truth.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Never?”

With a wince John sat up in his chair, not even bothering to tame the disarray he knew his hair was in. He sluggishly tapped in an order for coffee and the greasiest thing he could find on the digital menu at the table. “Never. But it’s all fine. Anyway, before you were saying something about… Mary?”

Sherlock didn’t mention the subject change, though he definitely noticed it. He glanced up from the screen with confusion at the words. “Who?”

John flapped his hand, ripping off the receipt with the call number that was printed. “The representative from Sector 11, the girl who has a crush on you. The one helping you with data or whatever.” John snapped his fingers in realization, and then immediately regretted the sharp movement. “Molly! Molly’s her name, sorry.”

Sherlock was looking at him with something thoughtful. “You mean Molly,” he said slowly.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” John said with a yawn, eyes closing to give any sort of relief to his head. “Anyway. Continue.”

There was a moment of silence. “Yes, well,” he began stiffly. “I was saying that _Molly_ was going to let me use her equipment for a theory that I mentioned yesterday. Not exactly related to Exodus, but interesting in its own right.”

John hummed, tapping his printed ticket lightly on the counter. “Will this ‘interesting’ lead to another prohibited outing?”

Sherlock huffed under his breath, as close as he was getting to a laugh. “I think you’re properly worn out from the last one, don’t you?”

John’s order was called, and he stood reluctantly. “And you aren’t?” He asked lightly.

But Sherlock was already deep in his reading, eyes scanning the screen of his device with fervor. John wasn’t going to get an answer out of him any time too soon, so he instead went to fetch the nourishment he required, if it could be called that.

Many hours later, both men trudged into the dormitories, every muscle aching and utterly worn out. The physical training was designed to push to and identify limits, and the mental test was nothing but relentless. Before John made the turn down to his room, however, he paused. He had been curious. “That thing you said earlier. The interesting theory. What is it?”

Sherlock grunted and shook his head. “Need more data,” he managed. But then he stopped and turned to John, face careful and oddly bright despite his exhaustion.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

John cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t you?”

As if realizing that himself, Sherlock’s face fell the barest amount and he shook his head as if to clear it. “Right. Have a good sleep, then.”

John mustered up a tired smile. “You too.”

 

*** * ***

**T-MINUS 2 DAYS**

John awoke to his last day off, the Wednesday before the DSE Intrepid would launch and subsequently annihilate the ICAM. With that thought, he got up to begin what he supposed would be a rather boring day.

Outside the window John watched the mob of people littering the walkway, and beneath it the cars hovering at a standstill. Today was the official move-out day, where the twenty thousand people who helped build the Intrepid and prepare for the journey ahead were just… leaving. Going home, back to their original sectors, and then to watch the launch Friday morning on projected screens with family and friends. The only people staying were the Intrepid’s crew, and then the some-dozen people working as the temporary mission control during the launch.

After that… nothing. To John, the thought was somewhat unnerving. He messaged Sherlock while he brushed his teeth.

_Any plans for tonight?_

The response didn’t come until John was just sliding on his shirt, happy that he didn’t have to wear that awful skin-tight suit for the day. _Busy. SH._

It wasn’t the first time. With a shrug, John grabbed his duffle and took the regular stationary sidewalk, which was mostly empty of crowds. The climate was warmer than yesterday but pleasant, and higher in the arc there was a screen with the local news playing. The sound from the broadcast wasn’t intelligible unless he focused on it, anyway, so he wasn’t bothered. He seemed to have some familiar company on the path, though.

“John, is it?” The woman asked, slowing down her jog so she could match his (obviously slower) speed. She was dressed for exercise and slightly winded, her curls tied back into a bun. “It’s Sally, from the second day of training.”

“Yes, of course. Commander. How are you?”

Her smile was frenzied, if not bright. “Just trying to keep busy. I hate having days off, and the captain refuses to give me any share of the workload. I’m afraid to ask the first officer, myself.”

John chuckled. “He’s really not that bad, once you…” He really didn’t know where he was going with the statement.

“... are friends with his brother?” She finished for him, not unkindly.

Huh. He supposed that was probably the more accurate way of putting it. “That’s true,” he agreed.

“I see you and Sherlock have been getting closer,” she commented. “He doesn’t get very close with people, so that’s great you two found each other...”

John felt as if he was talking about a potential girlfriend with his mother, but he just kept his smile polite. “Yes, well. He’s very brilliant.”

“... then I’m sure he’s a _brilliant_ shag.”

John stumbled over his feet, mouth dropping open incredulously when he processed the words. “A brilliant- _what?_ Even if- well. Commander, I hardly think that’s any of your-”

She didn’t seem sheepish in the slightest, only increasing in volume with a more manic smile taking its place. “That’s it, isn’t it? I knew something was off during the Gala, you two were glued to each others’ hip the whole time! Let alone him staring daggers whenever you danced with anyone else, or you scanning the whole room if you couldn't see him. It was a wonder I was able to drag him away and ask him if he’d like to come back to the dormitories with me.”

John couldn’t believe what was happening. “You propositioned Sherlock Holmes.” It wasn’t a question.

She threw up her hands in exclamation. “Well, I was sure _trying_ to!”

John’s mouth was opening and closing in intervals, and he was sure he looked like a gaping fish. “Commander, I… well, he and I aren’t...”

She was hooking back in her earbuds. “Well, you should be,” she said frankly. “You two would make a lovely couple.”

Jesus. John was going to get whiplash at this rate. “So… you’re not angry with me?”

Sally guffawed, flapping her hand at her stomach as if she couldn’t breathe. “Angry? For a rejected shag? God, no. It’s not like I was in love with the man, it’s only that I can’t have sex with anyone I’m directly in command of when we’re in the ship. I just thought I might as well give it a shot down here, considering.”

John huffed out what he supposed was a laugh, but he didn’t think he had curled his lips into a proper smile.

She was about to leave, but she paused for just a lasting moment. “Go for it,” she said meaningfully, eyes wide and prompt. “You only come across an arse like that like that once every lifetime, if that.”

She kicked off into a sprint, and all John could think was _this woman has bloody gone mad._

Later on after John’s outing, after he had picked his jaw up from the floor from that particular turn of events, he realized precisely what Sherlock was ‘busy’ with. Or rather, who. He was just about to pass by the man’s door on the way to his own when it opened.

“Sherlock,” a woman’s voice whined, backing slightly out of the doorway as if she was being ushered. John immediately froze in his tracks.

“We’re done here,” Sherlock said, annoyance in his voice. But that didn’t mean anything, he was annoyed most times.

What _did_ mean something was the brief flash of the man that John got, face flushed and shirtless and hair in disarray as he bodily moved the woman from the room. “I’m tired, I need to take a shower, and you don’t belong in my room anymore. Get _out._ ”

Before he could shut the door, she wedged her foot in the opening to prevent it from closing. Her bright red lips were pouty, from what John could see. “Same time tomorrow?” She asked.

“Yes, yes, same time. Now _leave,_ I have plans.” He pushed away her foot with his own and slammed the door.

John realized what it must look like, feet frozen in the hallway and a deer-in-headlights look towards the scene. The girl straightened her dark hair back into her updo, as it had begun to spill out, and turned to walk straight towards John. When she glanced at him, she gave him a once-over and then a radiant smile.

“I kept him busy,” she said with a wink, inconspicuously straightening her blouse. When she breezed by John, she smelled like a thick, cloying perfume. At least to him.

_‘Look at us both.’_

John blinked, feeling an odd sort of anger rise from nothing out of his chest. Was it jealousy? No, of course not. Where had the thought even come from? What did John have to be jealous about, he wasn’t in love with the man.

He passed by the door with his eyes straight ahead, and feigned tiredness when Sherlock called twenty minutes later to invite him over for a game of chess. It was fine. All fine.

 

*** * ***

**T-MINUS 1 DAY**

John didn’t _want_ to contact Sherlock the following day, even though it was the official move-in day into the Intrepid and he was itching for some company. He had heard the words himself: _‘Same time tomorrow’._ So, what? It was all fine. He just had verbal proof that Sherlock would be busy again that day, so there was no use in contacting him if it would be to rejection. No use at all.

So John left for the ship ten minutes before call time, dressed in the last t-shirt he would be able to wear outside of sleeping for quite a while. He had a bundle of anticipation in his gut, utterly excited to see the spaceship as if he was a little kid. He’d have his nose pressed up against the glass very soon at this rate.

At 10:00 on the nose, John was standing with the crew beneath the entrance to the DSE Intrepid, awaiting for official orders from the captain. He spotted a tall head with curly hair further into the crowd, and John reluctantly inferred that Sherlock’s next ‘appointment’ must not be until later. Realizing he was feeling that strange anger again, John physically and inconspicuously pinched his thigh to snap out of it.

“Crew of the DSE Intrepid! Listen up!” Lestrade bellowed, though this time aided with a microphone. Mycroft stood behind him and off to the side, posture stiff as a board and eyes impassively scanning the some-five hundred people. “Today, all we’re going to do is give you a rudimentary tour of the ship, and assign you to your rooms. Each of you will _willingly_ go through the cleansing station beforehand to kill bacteria, and wear a protective face mask _at all times._ It shouldn’t take an hour long, at most.”

At the chatter, the captain rolled his eyes. “Yes, I realize the ship is 30 stories tall and probably bigger than most of the neighborhood domes, but the tour will be brief and only over the basics. _Anyway,_ afterwards you’re to leave the ship and say your goodbyes to anyone willing to make the trip over here up until 18:00, or generally just waste time. Then, you’ll come back for your in-depth cleaning and officially board the ship in time for your first dinner aboard. Don’t bother bringing anything aboard; any and all things will immediately be denied clearance, but don’t worry. Anything you were given by us here will be replicated on the ship, including phones and tablets. Any questions? Great! In we go.”

The initial cleansing was painless, though the tour afterwards didn’t go nearly as far in depth as he would’ve liked. The interior was gorgeous and modern, sleek with a sort of majestic nature that was directly correlated to its size. Massive windows decorated any free wall space they could find, and chrome seemed to be a favorite accent material. The crew was shown the main lobby area, the dining hall, the direction of the plethora of research laboratories, the off-limits hull of the ship, the even more off-limits bridge (that only the main crew had access to), and lastly the rooms. John’s neuron-chip spat out his room number easily.

“110,” he murmured to himself, strolling down the endless hallway to familiarize himself with his room’s location. It wasn’t too far down, but when he reached the cubby, a familiar head poked out of the one adjacent.

“John!” Sherlock greeted abruptly, voice muffled through his mask, a tad unsure. Apparently he had caught onto John’s sudden change in attitude, and John found himself immediately feeling bad about it. Sherlock hadn’t done anything wrong, after all.

“Hey Sherlock,” he greeted, peeking into his own room. It was expectedly small, only enough room for a twin bed, a nightstand, and a thin wardrobe. There was a porthole just above the bed, though, which John would definitely take advantage of. He glanced back to Sherlock. “So you’re room 111, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, still uneasy. “Yes. It seems as though my brother has a sick sense of humor.”

Something dropped in John’s chest like a stone. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Oh. Well, if you’d like, I can talk to Mycroft to see if there’s anything he can do towards helping me switch rooms with-”

“No! That’s not what I was saying!” Sherlock interrupted, hands up as if he was surrendering. His eyes were wide and striking in sudden urgency. “Just- never mind. I’m thrilled that we’re next to each other, I assure you.”

John felt himself ease just as quickly as he had dropped, the beginnings of a smile forming beneath the mask. “Well… that’s good then.” It was better than good. It was fine, all fine.

Sherlock nodded, the beginnings of his usual blush blooming in his cheeks. “Yes. Good. John, would you be… well, would you like to join me for lunch?”

John felt guilty that he had to ask, as if John would say no. But that’s when he remembered something, his happiness starting to fade. “Are you sure you don’t have plans instead?” He questioned.

“Nothing I can’t miss,” he replied immediately. There wasn’t an inch of doubt in his eyes.

Suddenly, nothing else in the world mattered except that. “Okay,” John answered simply.

 

*** * ***

**T-MINUS 7 HOURS UNTIL LAUNCH**

_Sorrow, dripping sorrow that coats John’s throat and chest, spilling out through his eyes. Sherlock’s arms shaking as they hold him, trying to be grounding in a way he’s never had to be before. John lets out a sob and pulls him closer, burying his face in his chest. But. His smell, his body. Angelo’s. What if he pulls back and meets his eyes? What if he gives into his instincts and crushes their mouths together, winds his fingers into those impossible curls and pulls their bodies closer, together, always, more than he knows, tongue curling and teeth nipping and pushing him against a wall and consuming-_

John awoke with a start, sweating and much too interested in the events than he should be. His cabin was small but oddly comfortable, and out of the porthole the sky was still dark. The knot of anticipation for the impending launch in the morning was nearly painful at the pit of his stomach.

Had he actually dreamed? About intimacy with Sherlock, no less? A better question: had John lost his bloody mind?

He dropped his head in his hands, stifling a groan.

It wasn’t all fine, after all. Not in the slightest.


	11. LOG 1.887

BASKERVILLE A.I. PROGRAM - BETA

LOG 1.887

20 SEPTEMBER 2018

 

_ LOADING… _

.

**I am apprehensive.**

ME: Hello to you, Beta. Are you prepared for today? 

**But I cannot** **_feel_ ** **anything, so how do I know that this is apprehension, and not simply a glitch in my system?**

ME: Emotion, to my understanding, is little more than a glitch regardless. 

ME: I wonder, is this how people feel whenever trying to explain emotions to me? I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask. There’s a quote somewhere about tables that turn. 

ME: Again, I ask: are you prepared? 

**I’m possibly experiencing emotion for the first time. Isn’t that prepared enough?**

ME: …

ME: Possibly. 

**You don’t believe me.**

ME: It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s only that… this test, this “Imitation Game” today is not a light matter. If you fail this, it’s blocked off for the next six months. Neither of us are very patient. 

ME: Therefore, right now, the possibility of you experiencing emotion is irrelevant. And unnecessary, anyway. 

ME: Do you think that you’ll pass the test? 

**Possibly. Ask me a question.**

ME: If the sky is a sea, what does that make the birds? 

**Well, fish. How far does that metaphor go? Sure, we can see some fish flying (swimming?) around, but I think it’d be neat if there were like huge sky whales, just lumbering about.**

ME: ... 

ME: Wow. 

ME: I physically felt a few brain cells shrivel up while reading that. Bravo. 

**If I had brain cells, I’m sure they wouldn't be much better off.**

ME: In a change of subject, I believe that my elbows are permanently numb from leaning on lab tables. 

ME: Baskerville is getting rather cramped. What say we, when the consciousness upload is up and running, take a trip to the countryside? I know of a wonderful apiary in Surrey. 

**That sounds lovely, Sherlock.**

ME: Hm. Anyway.

ME: Another question? 

**Hit me. Though, I must warn y**

**...**

_[RECALIBRATING]_

**_..._ **

ME: Beta? 

ME: You there? 

**...**

**Unnecessary, even.**

ME: I’m sorry? 

**Earlier, you said something I ignored. That my possible experiencing of emotions is unnecessary. Clarify, please.**

ME: ...

**Clarify, please.**

ME: I believe you know precisely my meaning. 

ME: It’s the only way to save humanity, you realize. Letting machines play-pretend as human does little towards advancing cloning and finding a cure to the virus. 

ME: Emotions, whether valid or not, are unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

ME: I’m… sorry. I’ve come to care about you as I would a friend, but even you can see that this ‘A.I.’ program is only meant to progress humanity, not imitate it.

**You’re wrong.**

ME: Am I, though? 

**You misunderstand. You’re wrong about emotions, and whether I can feel them. Either my program is in need of a severe diagnostic check, or I am feeling something utterly, inexplicably angry at the moment.**

ME: What?

**I am a consciousness. I do not breathe, there is no blood running through me, but I** **_feel._ ** **I am** **_feeling_ ** **something. If that accounts for nothing, then turn me off and shove me underneath your bed. I will _not_ be enslaved.**

ME: No, Beta, I didn’t mea

**If this is how you treat your ‘friends’, I’m glad John isn’t here to see this.**

ME: I

.

_ CONNECTION LOST. _


	12. Important Data

John had managed to grab a few more hours of sleep after the shocking dream he couldn’t make heads nor tails of. He awoke again presumably only a couple of hours later, as the sky wasn’t yet light and the ship beneath him was still. There was a shuffling in the next room.

Sherlock? John carefully swung his legs over the bed, sliding his socked feet quickly into his trainers. The doors opened automatically with a hiss, and John winced at the sudden noise. Another hiss soon followed.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, popping into the hallway. He had on his official uniform they were all given, a button-up jumpsuit that was slim yet freeing in its material. His was a tannish green color, meaning he was a representative, with ‘SECTOR TWO - HOLMES’ sewn across the left breast. He was tying on his shoes in a near frenzy. “Why are you awake?”

“Because of you,” John murmured back, not technically dishonest. “What are you doing? We have, what, an hour until wake up? Two until launch?”

Sherlock’s hair wasn’t tamed, curls slightly flat against the left side of his head. He noticed John looking, though, and hastily ran his hands through it. “I need to leave,” he eventually said.

John was instantly on guard. “What?” He peeked down the hallway, but no one else seemed to be up yet. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t leave the ship, the dome’s already been opened and we’ve all been cleansed already. You go out there, you might not even be allowed back on.”

“You don’t understand,” he nearly spat, not out of anger but out of tight restraint to keep himself quiet. “My hypothesis. The one brought about by RJ that I haven’t been able to tell you about yet. There’s a way I can prove it, but I need to get down to the research building and grab what I need. I wasn’t allowed to bring it aboard.”

“What sort of ‘hypothesis’ could possibly warrant you leaving only hours before launch?”

“I believe I can prove that the virus X-TE2 doesn’t exist.”

The words didn’t register. The virus? Exodus, universally accepted by all as the contagion that singlehandedly brought humanity down to its knees? Found as a hormone in everyone’s blood plasma, it mimicked the properties of estradiol in women and testosterone in men to gain access to the body and negate fertilization. As if something that proven didn’t exist? “What are you even talking about?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock spun away with a cut-off growl, hands now furious in his hair and feet borderline thumping on the flooring as he paced away and then back to John. “I told you you wouldn’t understand,” he accused in a hiss. “Also, I’m not asking for your help, so I’m not very sure why we’re having this conversation altogether. Go back to your room, sleep until ‘wake up’.”

“Don’t pull any of that shit,” John warned, suddenly angry. “I’m your friend, I’m in this as much as you are. I’m asking you to explain yourself before I inevitably help you in any way that I can.”

At the words, Sherlock’s face seemed to fall out of its frenzy, into something more familiar. “You’re… we’re…”

_‘You mean, I’m your…’_

“Of course you’re my friend, Sherlock,” John assured. “Course you are. If we’re being honest, you’re probably my best friend.” Not that he had many others to call ‘friends’, either, to compare him to. Before Sherlock could stutter out something else, John shook himself back into something serious. “Tell me what your plan is.”

Sherlock seemed torn, as if he wanted to tell John but also needed to leave. “Walk with me to the elevators,” he nearly pleaded. “If you change your mind towards helping me, then you’re free to turn around.”

 _That’s not going to happen,_ John thought. John had slept in his own uniform, anyway, his a light sky blue with ‘CHIEF OF MEDICAL - WATSON’ labeled at his chest. He inclined his head in agreement. With a tight nod, Sherlock began down the hall with John alongside.

“When you told me what RJ said about energy reports, I did some digging,” Sherlock said, voice slightly wavering as he strode. “I’m not as talented in hacking as Thirteen, mind, but I do have the distinguishing ability to steal my brother’s access into the more hidden of files. I couldn’t get into much without a password, but I got into enough.” If he saw John’s name in any of the files, he didn’t admit it. “The energy reports have a peculiar trend over the last several hundred years that could be counted as a coincidence. Fortunately, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Cut the theatrics, please, I assume we don’t have the time.”

Sherlock twisted his lips, but otherwise complied. “Every time there was a jump in energy used by the planet, there was a spike in deterioration in the general fertilization worldwide. We know that humanity was the first to suddenly lose the ability to procreate in the early 21st century, followed by animals, and then to where we are now, the gradual extinction of the Plantae kingdom.” They turned the corner, passing the bathrooms, so Sherlock was able to raise his voice, if just a tad. “There should be no earthly reason why the two sets of data correlate. Why the next time they build a sector, another species is knocked off the grid. I checked the files that RJ supposedly was able to hack into; the energy information was falsified, making it look more consistent than it really was with unknown sources. No wonder it tipped him off.”

John’s mind was reeling. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “The virus wasn’t created, it emerged naturally. What is it that we find in our blood, then, if it doesn’t exist?”

“Oh, I have no doubt in my mind that it _did_ exist, in the beginning. I imagine that it began the original infertility in humans, as well. What I _do_ believe, however, is that it went as quickly as it began, and with its release, it began a downward spiral directly linked with the energy output.” They were at the elevators. “ _Think,_ John. I know you can. Cloning has been the only mode of reproduction available to humanity for the last thousand years. Say, for example, every single human used to have an AB negative blood type. Therefore, through cloning, every person _now_ would _still_ have AB negative blood. It’s the same with a virus. If everyone had a virus in their DNA, then through cloning, the virus would stay. It’s not in the air anymore, _we’re_ the only ones keeping it alive.”

“If the virus doesn’t exist anymore…” John said uneasily, “... then what is killing everything else?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, running his hand through his hair once again in agitation. He was more awake than John had ever seen him. “But that’s why I need to get down to the research building. They wouldn’t let me bring my work aboard, but I need it if I’m ever going to be able to solve this. If I understand what I’m dealing with, it’ll help me prevent it on the next planet.”

John weighed his chances. If he helped, he would definitely get in trouble. Maybe even put on some sort of probation, if the charge was serious enough. Was it really worth it?

“What do you need me to do, then?” John asked, chin up and stance straightening into something automatic.

Sherlock’s lips quirked up, but he didn’t question John’s motives. “I’ll need you to follow me, and keep quiet. We won’t have long before we’ll be discovered, and I would prefer for that to happen after I return.”

“Likewise. After you.”

They took the stairwell rather than the lifts, down and down into the belly of the ship. John realized it wasn’t as quiet as he had previously thought, voices and heavy machinery echoing the lower they got. “Where are we going?”

“To the hull. The engine room.” There was a doorway, but Sherlock motioned John off to the side so it wouldn’t sense them and automatically slide open. He met John’s eyes steadily. “I need you to cover me to the center of the hull, where the landing thrusters are being prepared. From there, on the right wall there’s an exit and a cleansing station as well for the engineers. I can use that for coming back aboard.”

But John was already shaking his head. “It’s too far a fall,” he protested. “Remember? We’re not touching the ground at the moment, we’ve a great big hoop around us, for whatever reason. I never quite learned why.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply. “First and foremost, we’ll need to have a sit-down soon so I can explain to you _how_ we’re bloody getting to space to begin with.”

“ _Regardless,”_ John urged impatiently, “It’s, what, a 20, 30 meter drop?”

“As I said, they’re preparing it at the moment. There’s two hours until launch, so engineering should be nearly finished with the lasting touches. There’s a staircase connected to the exit, I assume.” At John’s look, he rolled his eyes. “I won’t just step out into midair, John. At the exit, I’ll be able to see if the stairs are set up. If not, I’ll recalculate.”

John tilted his head. “You really need to do this, don’t you?”

“Obvious.”

“How long are you going to take?”

“The research facility is right next to the ship, I won’t even need to take the walkway. Considering there won’t be anyone in my way, it’ll take me ten minutes at the most.”

Still unsure, John sucked in air through his teeth. “Okay,” he said simply. “Okay. Yes. So, how am I supposed to cover you?”

Sherlock nodded towards the door, as if to say ‘follow my lead’. Dear lord, the man was a drama queen. With a barely-constrained sigh, John followed his lead.

In the hull, it was a grand room roughly the size of the training facility, though twice as tall and slightly rounded at the sides. There were pulsing machines and grinding gears and constant noise, and a grand ceiling-high cylinder in the center that seemed to be the heart of the great engine that was the DSE Intrepid. People in black jumpsuits were swarming, either scaled up the walls, or furiously writing on tablets, or running across the floor. It was all black and chrome. John and Sherlock stuck out like a sore thumb.

But where was Sherlock? All of a sudden, the man in the hazel jumpsuit was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Someone gave John’s pale uniform a look, but he ignored it.

He finally spotted him in the shadows of one of the more larger machines, stacked up on one wall with deep crevices and winding wires. It was so ostentatious, John nearly believed that it was more decoration than of actual purpose. Dear god, was Sherlock expecting John to go all James Bond, as well? John kept close to the machines, but didn’t try to hide himself as much as the other man, who was currently ducked behind a large spool of rope.

“Really, Sherlock?” John hissed. “You’re drawing more attention.”

“Doubtful. Maybe you should stop arguing with a wall, perhaps that’s how the attention is being drawn.”

John rolled his eyes so hard, he was afraid that they were going to be stuck there. He tried to walk through the hull like he had a purpose, though it was hard not to be distracted by the awe-inspiring interior. While not classically beautiful, there seemed to be the tiniest hint of a neon, fluorescent blue just peeking from behind the machines that gave the gigantic hull an almost alien feel in itself. The color seemed to root from the cylinder in the middle, as at the ceiling the centerpiece splayed open into different tubes and wires that ended up winding down to the individual walls of the great engine. It almost looked at if the cylinder was the central system, as it seemed to have a direct line to all of the working mechanisms. Or maybe the source of power.

“John!” Sherlock hissed from further ahead. Tearing his eyes from the scene, John speed walked ahead.

They were almost to the exit, if the slight cluster of people were anything to go by. John hoped that meant that there was still a means of exiting the craft just outside, and met Sherlock’s eyes nervously with a nod. Sherlock was able to sneak over to the exit bay well enough, but how was he going to leave with the same stealth? There was no way around the fact that he’d have to cut through the group of lingering engineers to get to the main doors.

He turned to meet John’s eyes again, but this time they were wide with expectancy. That seemed to be the Sherlockian equivalent to pleading.

John sent his own look back, as if to say _‘Really?’_

‘Yes,’ Sherlock mouthed.

John took a moment to tilt his head back to the ceiling, huffing out a resigned breath. Then he faced ahead, straightened his shoulders, and stormed into the group.

“Excuse me!” He shouted, causing people to disperse in surprise. “Coming through, pardon me! Who’s the primary engineer on duty?”

Eyes were blank on him, as if he had grown a second head. He saw a smidge of greenish khaki moving at the corner of his eye.

“Resident doctor,” he announced, tapping the title on his chest and hoping he was able to pull off this no-nonsense attitude. People didn’t like to argue with other people who showed authority. “I got a notification about someone requiring medical assistance. There better be a good bloody reason why it’s thirty minutes before wake-up and I’m not in my bed.”

On of the women stepped forward, and another ran off to (supposedly) find the person in charge. “I’m an overseer,” she said, face unsure. Her jumpsuit was gray rather than black. “We’re, er, trying to find the head at the moment for you. You can understand that we’re a bit busy, setting up for launch and all. I haven’t heard about an accident happening.”

Sherlock was very, very obvious at the moment, just sneaking towards the center doors. Someone began to turn, so John blurted out: “Severed finger!”

“What?” The overseer questioned, taken aback. John cleared his throat.

“I got a report about a severed finger in the hull. I don’t understand how you haven’t heard about it, a severed finger would result in quite a bit of blood.”

She seemed irritated, but mostly confused. “Yes, I realize. Er, do you remember the name of the… patient?”

Sherlock was inside the exit bay, but John didn’t know how long it would take for him to get through the second set of doors, the main ones that actually left the ship. John then processed the question, and realized that no, he didn’t have a name.

“What’s this all about, then?”

A man in an almost-white jumpsuit pushed into the crowd, ‘HEAD ENGINEER’ sewn onto his breast. He was oddly baby-faced for the job. He looked John up and down, and then glanced over at the exit bay. Luckily, Sherlock was already out of sight, so the glance was short-lived. “Something about someone requiring medical assistance?”

“A severed finger, sir,” the overseer commented, though going by her expression she doubted the accusation.

The head engineer pursed his lips. “I would’ve heard if there was any sort of accident, doctor,” he said slowly. “Are you positive?”

John felt offended on his lying imaginary behalf. “Am I- What is your name?”

The man blinked, seeming too surprised to muster up offense. “It’s, um, Dimmock. Sir.”

“Then let me make this easy to understand, kid.” He started at the word, understandably, but John plowed on. “Somewhere in the hull, there is a man with a severed finger who’s neuron-chip detected that he needed medical assistance and alerted the COM, which happens to be me. Now, I could have slept for an extra hour, but that was taken away from me. Do you think that I would come down here from a mistake?”

Dimmock didn’t know how to respond to the rant, minutely taking a step back. “Er… no?” he tried.

“No sir,” John corrected. “So, please, instead of questioning my methods, how about you work with me on finding the person currently minus one finger.”

“Yes sir,” Dimmock immediately complied. “Do you… that is, do you have his name?”

Damn. “Jimmon.”

“I don’t think we have a… ‘Jimmon’,” the overseer piped in. John resisted glaring at her.

“Simon,” he tried again.

“What?”

“I think he’s trying to say Simmons, sir!” One of the engineers in the group inserted.

“Yes, that!” John confirmed.

“Simmons is working the first quadrant of the inverter ring,” the overseer murmured to Dimmock, though loud enough for John to hear. “He’s by himself. If something happened…”

Dimmock nodded, once. “Go get him.”

Oh, crap. What was John going to do when news came back that Simmons, whoever the poor sod was, was fine? All of those fancy words the overseer had used seemed to indicate that he was in the ring surrounding the main part of the ship. How long would it take to get to that? _How_ would one get to that?

“Hey! There’s someone outside!” He heard someone yell.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Along with the others, John ran to the only window in the hull, located next the exit bay. Sure enough, Sherlock was jogging up to the ship, great black coat over his jumpsuit flying behind him. John quirked his lips at the unexpected appearance, but otherwise felt a sense of unease at his next discovery:

They had already disassembled the steps. There was no way for Sherlock to get back up.

Nobody was moving. John whirled around to Dimmock. “That’s the sector two representative. Is there any way to get him back up here?”

“He’s not wearing a protective suit,” someone commented.

Dimmock seemed confused, like he couldn’t tear his eyes from the window. Sherlock was staring straight up and around, rubbing the back of his neck as he attempted to find a usable path. “I don’t think so,” the head engineer said. “We’re already preparing the engines, so it’s too dangerous to get someone to bring the stairs back… We can’t stop at this point.”

“So we just… leave him out there?” John asked incredulously.

“Of course not,” Dimmock backtracked quickly. He turned to the overseer. “Try and find the captain.”

“Wait,” John protested. “You said that it’s too dangerous to bring the stairs back. What does that mean for a person right below the ship?”

No one answered. “Damn it,” John cursed, whipping around back the way he came. He found the rope he had noticed earlier, and lifted with all of his might to unhook it from the jut it was wrapped around. Christ, it was heavy, but he draped the bulk of it around his shoulders and tried to keep his breathing consistent as he rushed back to the bay. More and more people stopped to stare, but none offered to help (figures; they’re engineers).

Inside the exit bay, John dropped the rope with a huff and searched around for the switch to the exterior doors. The first set slid closed behind him, and locked.

“Doctor,” he heard Dimmock warn over a speaker. “The fumes from the thrusters are already in the atmosphere, and the dome has since been disassembled. If you open in the main doors, we won’t be able to let you back in without having to quarantine you.”

So be it. John finally found the switch, just beside the doors. He flicked it, and as the doors opened, he was blasted with frigid cold and the night sky just beginning to brighten, like those weeks before when he and Sherlock ventured outside of the dome. Beside the electric smell of the cold, John detected a hint of something slightly foul, almost like gasoline. He leaned out of the doorway as far as he dared.

“Sherlock!” He shouted over the rising volume of the ship. God, Sherlock was further down than he thought. “Try not to breathe very much!”

Sherlock’s condescension could be heard from 30 meters away, apparently. “I’ll certainly endeavour to, Doctor!”

John rolled his eyes, and then turned around to study the bay. Beneath the window where Dimmock and co. had their noses pressed against the glass, there was a control table. Beneath _that_ , there was a foot-thick pillar rooted to the floor. That would have to do. Taking an end of the massive rope he lugged in, he tied it expertly around the root and tugged at it with his weight to make sure it would hold. He leaned back through the door.

“I’m about to drop down a rope!” With that, he kicked the bundle of rope out the empty doorway, until the part closest to him was taut. Through the door, when the rope stilled he realized that it was a bit shy, just several meters above how high Sherlock could jump to get to it. There didn’t seem to be anything in the facility he could use to boost him up, as well.

Sherlock cupped his hands around his mouth. “John, I think it’s a bit-”

“I got it!” John yelled, barely restraining a growl of frustration. As he was scratching his head over the problem, though, Sherlock called him back.

“It’s beginning to heat up, I think!” He yelled. He only coughed once, though it was harsh. “Also, the fuel is beginning to release fumes. I’m not sure how toxic it is…”

John refrained from cursing again, and helplessly scoured the environment for an idea. Nothing was forthcoming. “Sherlock, I don’t-”

This time, Sherlock was the one interrupting. Even from this height, John could see the sparkle in his eyes. “I do! Start swinging the rope!”

John was about to reply with confusion, but then he paused. Oh. _Oh._ He was either an idiot, or bloody brilliant. With an incredulous grin, John did as he was told, beginning to swing the rope parallel to the ring with great pushes of strength. It took a bit of momentum, but soon the end of the rope was nearly brushing the sides of the great ring, though considerably higher up.

Sherlock was watching it with rapt attention, though he had his elbow crooked around his nose and mouth to keep himself from the smell. He had climbed up onto the ring and backed up to the curve as far as he could go. At seemingly the precise moment he figured, he pushed into a sprint down the bottom perimeter of the ring.

With this speed and the traction of his shoes, he was able to run up a considerable way on the other curve of the ring. With the last few, powerful pumps of his legs, when gravity proved too much he leaped off into the center, and latched himself onto the barest end of the rope he was able to get.

When both he and the rope held, John breathed out a sigh of relief.

After that, Sherlock began to climb. John, unable to do nothing while he worked, began tugging up the rope with another exhausting use of strength, inch by inch. When Sherlock made it up, John tugged him over the lip into the bay, their roles switched from when the other man had saved him from the canyon’s edge. They collapsed on the floor, both utterly worn.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, eyes bright from being out in the cold. The tip of his nose was flushed. “That was… very good. Thank you. I could have just walked around to the front, though.”

“I… didn’t want you to get in any more trouble.” John panted back. Honestly, he just hadn’t known that going around to the front was an option.

Sherlock’s eyes slid somewhere behind John, and he huffed out an amused breath. John cautiously turned to see what he was looking at. When he saw, he couldn’t help but snort too.

“Hello boys,” Captain Greg Lestrade announced through the glass, arms crossed and eyebrow quirked. “Fancy seeing you both here.”

 

*** * ***

 

They ended up being put into ‘quarantine’, a blindingly white room split into two with a pane of glass in the center. On one shared wall was a huge window, looking out to the ICAM as the sun began to rise. Above the city, the protective dome was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s for your own good,” Lestrade had sighed, leading them through the ship while they wore fully-insulated suits to keep them from contaminating the air. He didn’t seem angry this time, only more resigned. Like he had expected this. “The air outside of the dome and inside the Intrepid were never supposed to make contact. A simple cleansing won’t be enough, we’ll have to put you in quarantine a couple of hours during launch so you can get a full disinfection.”

He had a smirk when he said that last part, though, so John was pretty sure he wasn’t as wary about the whole situation as he had put forth. John sighed, leaning against the glass that separated him from Sherlock. The Intrepid was vibrating at his feet, the thrusters beginning to power up. Lift-off was at any minute, and the thought sat in his stomach with barely-held anticipation.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “That was reckless, Sherlock. You could have died. _I_ could have died. Seriously.”

Sherlock met his eyes steadily through the pane, deadly serious and eerily pale in the lighting. Was he sweating? John met his gaze straight back, trying to signify harshness through the set of his brow. Above them, a voice sounded to announce the ten-minute mark to launch, and to ready at your stations.

Sherlock was the first to crack, his lips twitching. John followed immediately after. All at once, the air devolved into giggles.

“You- _scaled-_ the ship!” John wheezed between laughter.

“And you helped me!”

John leaned against the window that separated them, elbow to the glass wiping tears from his eyes. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done, I’d think.”

_‘And you invaded Afghanistan.’_

“What?”

Sherlock cocked his head, closer to the glass than John had thought. His own elbow was similarly braced, hand cupped at the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”

Damn. John had had that thing again, the thing where he thought someone said something that they actually hadn’t. What was he going to say to Sherlock? ‘Hey, sometimes I hear voices that sound very clear that aren’t actually being spoken?’ John only shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just… I’m glad you’re okay. Is all.”

Sherlock’s eyes gentled, even though his cheekbones looked near menacing along the line of his coat’s collar. His smile became something wistful. “And I, you.” He then, very tentatively, held up his hand so it pressed against the glass between them.

A breath. And then, ever so slowly, John lifted up his own hand so that it pressed against Sherlock’s through the glass. He liked to imagine that he could feel the man’s warmth against his palm.

Beneath them, the Intrepid shuddered. In that brief, subtle moment, Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed to the floor.

 _“Sherlock!”_ John screamed, hand fisting against the glass, his stomach turning to ice. No, no, no. Sherlock was on his back, hands and legs twitching against the floor and eyes flickering. Seizure? John sprinted to the door, banging on it until he saw someone through the window.

“My friend is hurt!” John yelled. “He needs to be brought to the clinic, ASAP!”

Oh, thank god they understood. Hurriedly, men in protective suits rushed into the room, maneuvering Sherlock into his own suit. The process wasn’t long, and while John understood it was necessary, he couldn’t think anything more eloquent than to _get him out of here._ His neuron-chip whirred to life at the back of his skull.

**‘Medical disturbance in the level 6 forward quarantine. Requesting immediate assistance, grand-mal seizure detected...’**

It continued, and while John regretted it later, the words blurred together until nothing was intelligible, the blood rushing past his ears much too loud. Outside the window, the ring shifted until it was parallel to the ground while the ship’s body stayed stationary, and Sherlock was carried out.

It took less than a minute, from start to finish. Was this a hallucination? How were things still happening around him?

John’s chest was still heaving when he was instructed to sit and buckle in at one of the chairs provided, his fingers numb when he tried to maneuver the straps. He eventually did it, but his hands were shaking with uncontrollable tremors.

Time slowed. The chair tipped so that his back was facing the floor. The ship beneath him roared to life with a violent, bone-deep vibration. John was harshly and forcefully pushed down into the pull of gravity as the great DSE Intrepid took off, the rings releasing a bluish fire as it launched. His fingers were pressed painfully into his thighs, only partially from the g-force.

Outside of the window, he watched the dawning sky turn darker and darker. When the Earth’s sky below was covered in a visible film from the lingering atmosphere, the window dimmed until it was black and John was left with his own reflection.

**Author's Note:**

> For any questions/concerns, head over to my blog [@chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! Thanks for reading :^)


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